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gri_2003_m_46_b02_f05_059

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  1. 65497352 - lmorgan9
  2. 65538922 - not-logged-in-a6d540ddd2b45e405a6b
  3. 65603444 - edemars
  4. 65660237 - WiltedLotus
  5. WINNER - 65724713 - not-logged-in-3cce564cfda9fc46a9a3
  6. 65757679 - ChrisMM76
  7. 65765486 - star-lightcox.net

65497352 - lmorgan9

65538922 - not-logged-in-a6d540ddd2b45e405a6b

you. I am charmed that you remember it. Oh, dearest, I love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is in my heart and mind all the time. Say, you love me.

Do you remember one of my very first poems I wrote for you: 'Goodbye the mists above Firelight' and, then,

Our history is forgotten
But you Minerva recoup
Those Southern Voyages
Which I may also follow

They seem appropriate again. Then I remembered a more recent sonnet:

The future is a vase that twas shall turn
To find our flowers and dances going on.

And the following sonnet is the result of recalling these in the light of the present situation:

The future is a trip to Italy :
Do not return, my traveller, to the past,
Glacial, unconfident, but rest
In the creative Southern country.

From there embark with me for Cythera
Where vines grow over the painter's easel
( As on the ship which came at last to Naxos )
And birds escort the lovely traveller.

The shell whispers on the English sand:
-Master the culture of the sun, accept
The blood-red rings he puts upon your hand,
The triumph of your beauty he expects.

Welcome the journey and the sun's great dance inhibited no more by past allegiance.

And the line brackets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus in Bullfinch.

I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends.

The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, and every-body at Blackheath send their love, in particular Dandylion who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you,
Lawrence

65603444 - edemars

you. I am charmed that you remembred it. Oh, dearest, I love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is in my heart and mind all the time. Say you love me. Do you remember one of the first poems I wrote for you: 'Goodbye the mists above Fairlight' and then, Our history is forgotten But you Minerva recoup Those Southern voyages Which I may also follow They seem appropriate again. Then I remembered a more recent sonnet: The future is a vase that we shall turn To find our flowers and dances going on. And the following sonnet is the result of recalling these in the light of the rpesent situation: The future is a trip to Italy: Do not return, my traveller, to the past, Glacial, unconfident, but rest In the creative Southern country. From there embark with me for Cythera Where vines grow over the painter's easel (As on the ship which came at last to Naxos) And birds escourt the lovely traveller. The shell whispers on the English sand: - Master the culture of the sun, accept The blood-red rings he puts upon your hand, The triumph of your beauty he expects. Welcome the journey ans the sun's great dance Inhibited no more by past allegiance. And the line in brackets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus in Bullfinch. I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends. I will write it in the afternoons while you paint. The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, when he read my telegram - LOVE HETTY. But Hetty, Lionel, and everybody at Blackheath send their love, in particular Dandylion who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you. Lawrence

65660237 - WiltedLotus

you. I am charmed that you remember it. Oh, dearest, I love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is in my heart and mind all the time. Say, you love me.

Do you remember one of the very first poems I wrote for you: 'Goodbye the mists above Fairlight" and, then,

Our history is forgotten
But you Minerva recoup
Those Southern voyages
Which I may also follow

They seem appropriate again. Then I remembered a more re-cent sonnet:

The future is a vase that we shall turn
To find our flowers and dances going on.

And the following sonnet is the result of recalling these in the light of the present situation:

The future is a trip to Italy:
Do not return, my traveller, to the past,
Glacial, unconfident, but rest
In the creative Southern country.

From there embark with me for Cythera
Where the vines grow over the painter's easel
(As on the ship which came at last to Naxos)
And birds escort the lovely traveller.

The shell whispers on the English sand:
-Master the culture of the sun, accept
The blood-red rings he puts upon your hand,
The triumph of beauty he expects.
Welcome the journey and the sun's great dance
Inhibited no more by past allegiance.

And the line in brackets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus in Bullfinch.
I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends. I will write it in the afternoons while you paint.
The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, when he read my telegram - LOVE HETTY. But Hetty, Lionel, and every-body at Blackheath send their love, in particular Dandylion who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you.

Lawrence

WINNER - 65724713 - not-logged-in-3cce564cfda9fc46a9a3

you. I am charmed that you remember it. Oh, dearest, I love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is in my heart and mind all the time. Say, you love me.

Do you remember one of the very first poems I wrote for you: 'Goodbye the mists above Fairlight' and, then,

Our history is forgotten
But you Minerva recoup
Those Southern voyages
Which I may also follow

They seem appropriate again. Then I remembered a more recent sonnet:

The future is a vase that we shall turn
To find our flowers and dances going on

And the following sonnet is the result of recalling these in the light of the present situation:

The future is a trip to Italy:
Do not return, my traveller, to the past,
Glacial, unconfident, but rest
In the creative Southern country.

From there embark with me for Cythera
Where vines grow over painters easel
(As on the ship which came at last to Naxos)
And birds escort the lovely traveller

The shell whispers on the English sand:
-Master the culture of the sun, accept
The blood-red rings he puts upon your hand,
The triumph of your beauty he expects.

Welcome the journey and the sun's great dance
Inhibited no more by past allegiance.

And the line in brackets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus in Bullfinch.

I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends. I will write it in the afternoons while you paint.

The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, when he read my telegram - LOVE HETTY. But Hetty, Lionel, and everybody at Blackheath send their love, in particular Dandylion who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you,
Lawrence

65757679 - ChrisMM76

you. I am charmed that you remember it. Oh, dearest, I
love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is
in my heart and mind all the time. Say, you love me.
Do you remember one of the very first poems I wrote for
you: 'Goodbye the mists above Fairlight' and, then,
Our history is forgotten
But you Minerva recoup
Those Southern voyages
Which I may also follow
The seem appropriate again. Then I remembered a more re-
cent sonnet:
The future is a vase that we shall turn
To find our flowers and dances going on.
And the following sonnet is the results of recalling these
in the light of the present situation:
The future is a trip to Italy:
Do not return, my traveller, to the past,
Glacia, unconfident, but rest
In the creative Southern country.

From there embark with me for Cythera
Where vines grow over the painter's easel
(As on the ship which came at last to Naxos)
And birds escourt the lovely traveller.

The shell whispers on the English sand:
-Master the culture of the sun, accept
The blood-red rings he put upon you hand
The triumph of your beauty he expects.

Welcome the journey and the sun's great dance
Inhibited no more by past allegiance.

And the line in brackets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus
in Bullfinch.
I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as
a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends.
I will write it in the afternoons while you paint.
The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, when he
read my telegram - LOVE HETTY. But Hetty, Lionel, and every-
body at Blackheath sent their love, in particular Dandylion
who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you,
Lawrence

65765486 - star-lightcox.net

you. I am charmed that you remember it. Oh, dearest, I
love you so. I am full of love for you. Your beauty is
in my heart and mind all the time. Say, you love me.

Do you remember one of the first poems I wrote for you: 'Goodby the mists above Fairlight' and, then,

Our history is forgotten
But you Minerva recoup
Those Southern voyages
Which I may also follow

They seem appropriate again. Then I remember a more re-
cent sonnet:

The future is a vase that we shall turn
To find our flowers and dances going on.

And the following sonnet is the result of recalling these
in the light of the present situation:

The future is a trip to Italy:
Do not return, my traveller, to the past,
Glacial, unconfident but rest
In the creative Southern country.

From there embark with me for Cythera
Where vines grow over the painter's easel
(As on the ship which came at last to Naxos)
And birds escourt the lovely traveller.

The shell whispers on the English sand:
-Master the culture of the sun, accept
The blood-red rings he puts upon your hand,
The triumph of your beauty he expects.

Welcome the journey and the sun's great dance
Inhibited no more by past allegiance.

And the line in brachets refers to that lovely story of Bacchus
is Bullfinch.

I wonder what poetry Italy will produce. I see Florence as
a sestina with architectural terms repeated at the line ends.
I will write it in the afternoons while you paint.

The post-office man looked up, flinching a little, when he
read my telegram - LOVE HETTY. But Hetty, Lionel, and every-
body at Blackheath send their love, in particular Dandylion
who seems never to tire of saying, Sylvia, I love you,

Lawrence

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