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  1. 67034652 - not-logged-in-82d3bbaf71c543f18ba4
  2. 67047137 - Preacher357
  3. 67164471 - ethomson
  4. WINNER - 67313877 - hoskinml
  5. 68085376 - JanetCormack
  6. 68094136 - altheist

67034652 - not-logged-in-82d3bbaf71c543f18ba4

appeal to her. She would make an original art critic, I must say,
comparing you with Stanley Spencer.

I have just finished Gide's Les Faux-Monrayeurs. Have you read it?
It is astonishing delicate, non-commital novel: rather long and
full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.

Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the
Tate, I should imagine, so if you went on one of those days we could
economise fairs and meet in town after your visit. How long will
you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.

My poem is developing but is still in pieces. Here are a few pieces:
The larsitudeof slowed morning
When thought aims to Westernise the sun,
I recognigible fountain, savage
leaping hurried hard like stairs, three at a time.

We alarms a andoure of a youth
Seawen to challenge than the glone he owns:
On a hilde with ceremony weighed
Nastolgically tending the neils to hangers.
and
At night journeys uncoil like snakes
Which it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women are the flowers
Put out by the tendril miger.
and
Who hanging borower wands in museums
Where workmen of awake put autumn sliffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than ever, Oh my only
love, my muse, my heart. I love you, I love you
Lawrence

67047137 - Preacher357

appeal to her. She would rake an original art critic, I must say,
comparing you with Stanley Spencer.

I have just finished Gide's Les Faux-Monrayeurs. Have you read it?
It is an astonishing delicate non-commital novel: rather long and
full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.

Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the
Tate. I should imagine, so if you went on one of those days we could
economise fairs and meet in town after your visit. How long will
you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.

My poem is developing but is still in pieces. Here are a few pieces:

The larsitude of slowest mornings
When thought aims to Westermise the sun,
Incorrigible fountain, savage
leaping hurried lands like stairs, there at a time.

Like alarms & ardours of a youth
Slower to challenge than the glove he owns:
On a bride with ceremony weighed
Nostalgically tendering the veils to Rangers.

At night journeys uncoil like snakes
which it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women are the flowers
Put out by the tendril night.

and like hanging baroque works in museums
where workmen of awake put autumn stiffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than ever. Oh my
love, my muse, my heart. I love you, I love you
Lawrence

67164471 - ethomson

appeal to her. She would make an original art critic, I must say,
comparing you with Stanley Spencer.

I have just finished Gide's Les Faux-Monnayeurs. Have you read it?
It is an astonishing delicate, non-committal novel: rather long and
full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.

Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the
Tate, I should imagine, so if you went on one of those days we could
economise fares and meeting in town after your visit. How long will
you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.

My poem is developing but is still in pieces. Here are a few pieces:

The lassitude of slowest morning
when thought aims to Westernise the sun,
Incorrigible fountain, savage
leaping hurried lands like stairs, three at a time.

like alarms & ardours of a youth
Slower to challenge than the glove he owns:
Or a bride with ceremony weighs
Nostalgically tendering the veils to hangers.

At night journeys uncoil like snakes
whjich it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women are the flowers
Put out by the tendril night.

and

like barging baroque works in museums
where workmen of awake put autumn stiffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than ever. Oh my only
love, my muse, my heart. I love you, I love you
Lawrence

WINNER - 67313877 - hoskinml

appeal to her. She would make an original art critic, I must say, comparing you with Stanley Spencer.

I have just finished Gide's Les Faux-Monrayeurs. Have you read it? It is an astonishing delicate, non-commital novel: rather long and full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.

Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the Tate, I should imagine, so if you went on one of those days we could economise fairs and meet in town after your visit. How long will you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.

My poem is developing but is still in pieces. Here are a few pieces:

The lassitude of slowest mornings
When thought aims to Westernise the sun,
Incorrigible fountain, savage
Leaping buried lands like stairs, three at a time.

Like alarms & ardours of a youth
Slower to challenge than the glove he owns:
On a bride with ceremony weighed
nostalgically tendering the veils to hangers.

and

At night journeys uncoil like snakes
Which it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women are the flowers
Put out by the tendril night.

and

Like hanging baroque works in museums
Where workmen of awake put autumn stiffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than ever. Oh my only love, my muse, my heart. I love you, I love you
Lawrence

68085376 - JanetCormack

appeal to her. She would make an original art critic, I must say, comparing you with Stanley Spencer.
I have just finished Gide's Les Faux-Monrayeurs. Have you read it? It is an astonishing delicate, non-commital novel: ratherer long and full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.
Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the Tate, I should imagine, so if you want one of those days we could economise fairs [fares] and meet in town after your visit. How long will you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.
My poem is developing but is still in pieces. Here are a few pieces:

The lassitude of slowest mornings
When thought aimsto Westernise the sun,
Incorrigible fountain, savage
leaping hurried lands, like stairs, three at a time.

Like alarms & ardours of a youth,
Slower to challenge than the glare he owns:
On a hide with ceremony weighs
Nostalgically tendering the nails to hangers.

At night journeys uncoil like snakes
which it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women and the flowers
Put out by the tendril night.

and

like hanging baroque works in museums
where workman of awake put autumn stiffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than an ever. Oh my only love, my muse, my hear. I love you, I love you
Lawrence

68094136 - altheist

lb

appeal to her. She would rake an original art critic, I must say, comparing you with Stanley Spencer.

I have just finished Gide's Lcs Faux-Mannayeurs. Have you read it? It is an astonishing delicate, non-committal novel: rather long and full of perverse adolescent boys. I am baffled and enchanted by it.

Reverting to Muriel: you won't want to hear all my lectures at the Tate, I should imagine, so if you went on one of those days we could economize fairs and meet in town after your visit. How long will you stay, my darling. As long as possible, please, please, please.

My poem is developing but if still in pieces. Here ae a few pieces:

The lassitude of slowest warning
When thought aims to Westernise the sun,
Incorrigible founatain, savage
Leaping huned eards like stars, three at a time.

Like alarms & arduous of a youth
Slower to challenge than the glove he owns:
On a hide with ceremony weighed
Nostalgically tendering the neils to Rangers.

At night journey, uncoil like snakes
Which it is a temptation to tread on.
Sleeping women are the flowers
Put out by the tendril night.

and

Like hanging baroque works in museums
Where workmen of awake put autumn stiffs.

I love you so much: not as much as but more than ever. Oh my only love, my muse, my heart.

I love you, I love you,
Lawrence

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