rose dies to words, the stem rises to Virginia's height this lyre with no hide, before or behind, will meet every delight
so I read in "The Virginia Triggers" and I imagined, lacking a picture, a lyre was a sceptre there, in my picture, bloom, as nyctohylophobes grow savage when afar of night, tides of pursuit here, with this bloom, lacking the lyre's delight, many roses lie awake weeping every melodies and I imagined, lacking a picture, weeping was a frolic, and Virginia, the lady of drops, was fond of their shine http://www.wga.hu/art/e/eyck_van/jan/01page/14m_read.jpg
