Monday, October 04, 2004


Beauty, the lode discovered on the poor farmer's land, making
     riches overnight,
Galatea from a cottage or croft, transfigured immediately from
     her incongruous place,
The world shall not allow beauty in such disguising rags,

Has she shut off her low birth,
That might cause her to be agenda'd emissary from below to
And when she detonates, no betrayer—has she?