Help me, for canvas imprisoned here, A respite too short for crowds near, Mine art is subtle, if not to…
Maker
But Maker not so humble, With which shall fall to crumble, And be ought to start with flesh, His sand…
To morn and night
At morn in wait he yonder stood, Since then twas sun in morning drew. Long must in walk he better…
Matter of love
Oh, everlasting; forsake not for joy, I am but snow that falls upon ye so well, Whom so none never…
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