‘there is a harmony in autumn, and a lustre in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been’

Percy Bysshe Shelley, ‘Hymn to Intellectual Beauty’ 1816

‘… leave the world unseen,
        and with thee fade away into the forest dim’

John Keats, ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ 1819

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a glint of fractured light,
witnessed in adamantine sheets of silence,
refracts across crimson and egyptian blue,
across dense waters of incoherent fortitude,
refined, pristine,
an opaque mirror of all that falls between
that which will never be,
and that which has never been

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