English Pasture
As he surveyed his landscape whilst standing in the quintessential English pasture , he closed his eyes as the twilit sun swooned down from the alpine skies. Whilst he stood, eyes aloof, and his mind inured in contemplation, the zephyr began to billow and flutter his hair into some delicate dance, and he turned to her, intently averting his eyes from hers, approached her body and whispered softly into her ear: "I have a poet’s weakness for the symbol, and an artisan's hanker for the form, for your eyes I have grown obsessed for their twinkle, and your kisses for the lips they leave warm".
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