Besides a sweetly smelling, blooming flower.”
So I lay down my pen and gazed at her.
BYRON
The thought of Byron wakens in my mind
The vision of a solitary tree
Titanic and contorted on a cliff
That overhangs a wild abysmal sea.
Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,
Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,
Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.