Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros,
vain glossi ant decorate likath whores.
The Verso
Steel on the ashes of black,
lost poems. Tha un-seen back
thiar is is graved. Wyht a knack
forr eyres, clouds laste. Tack
thoos wrixled pises ond pack
em y flames. Good-by. My sack
hoolds me feaw heer. I the byd
leav thaem thus, amyd the wrack.
Vanité
Vers for hur manyere, her
tweea seemly een.
The trees are green
geseapenis, as thae the
weryeth ssedes fore Lethe.
Hwu
If I till wud
may-flowers bud?
