The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
The shooting stars in your black hair in bright formation are flocking where, so straight, so soon? --Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin, battered and shiny like the moon.
Elizabeth Bishop
U R I E L What is done in the dark will always come to light
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.