def poetry

the shadows of the ships
were it not for that singular smell
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
be in me as the eternal moods
to clothe the fiery thought
let us express our baser passions
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
up and down he goes
the arches of the red bridge
the agony of having too much power
moonlight deep and tender
to be able to see every side of every question
royal feast was done