SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
Thus doth the Great Foresightless mechanize
Its blank entrancement now as evermore
Its ceaseless artistries in circumstance….
Yet seems this vast and singular confection
Wherein our scenery glints of scantest size,
Inutile all—so far as reasonings tell.
SPIRIT OF PITIES
Thou arguest still the
Inadvertent Mind.
But, even so, shall blankness be for aye?…