The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Friday, 6 July 2012

Sweet Sunshine Soul

Sounds in the bush,
Soaked golden leaves.
Sunshine from the
Soul does feed on
Sweet sweet luxuries.
Subtle sights of my baby
Soothe me right to the soul.
Sunday mornings
Seem so lonely,
So lonely, with out you.
So saunter in with morning's
Slow, slow slumber flow.
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