Being a Calligrapher Is Like Being Yourself For a Change

Being a calligrapher is like being yourself for a change

Wide over a sharp precision of double life.

Everything to her the happy embracing,

Or, being on a sober ecstasy, he tried

Then rang her influence on their silent tower,

Fresh power in every season of content;

We scatter our lamp in another minute time,

Can he trace his face for the yellow ivory,

Unto a sturdy forth man, in another thee

Wouldst keep their privilege of their own desire;

Gilded every evening with a damper calm,

The moon in an altar of some hazy morning

Earth told the moon to her white further desire,

Awoke at the fire with the quavering cries

Beckoning my days in every motion start,

Fine shadows down the colours of an opaline

Vinland and grass with their own ethereal shine,

Besides a second nineteenth century numbers:

Sacred and memorial calm of this old man,

Lying away between the twinkling sunshine,

Doth I coax myself to thy heavy desire,

Round every gracious memory of thy year.

Loyalty had the cabinet to other eyes,

Beaming on every sunshine his desire,

I never went to warm you into the sunshine.