This quintessence of dust

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how

infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and

admirable . . . . and yet,to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

The Burning Font

This blog title is from a fragment of  Dylan Thomas' A Winter's Tale:

The sky, the bird, the bride,
The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyond
The fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride,
The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font.
In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide,

And the bird descended.

The poem is a wondrous hymn to love on fire.  As love can be.  To which nothing else can compare.  To which I commend you all.

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