auto: 2026-03-18T01:22:32Z
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@ -16,7 +16,7 @@ In sequent toil all forwards do contend.</p>
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<figcaption><a href="/poetry/sonnet-60.html">Sonnet 60</a> — William Shakespeare</figcaption>
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</figure>
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[Your writing here. This page is for you as much as anyone. A few paragraphs about time, about why you make things, about what this site and its slow accumulation mean. The grid below is the argument; this prose is the response to it.]
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[Some more text coming here.]
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<div id="weeks-grid-wrapper"></div>
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@ -21,5 +21,5 @@ And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
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Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
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And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
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And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
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Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
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Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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