Entry LIII – April

The Great Lover
Rupert Brook

Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; 
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.

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