Grasp: the merchants of Perth sew the surfeits of Heath (waxing consorts of wealth), carem courtesan earth; cast on trade winds of seas, caravanseries.
From the wide courts of Tyre to the high spires of Rome, whence the sore river Rhone lends the Ver, Zaire; spring the fair sons of men, pluming, tare, cachen.
Their grand consul affair brings a new age to brim, sings an altering hymn to the aegis’ ear; struck on high in accord of its peerless lord.
On the counsel of gold go men ringing up deeds, in the service of leeds seasoned over, in sew; over arches at lien in a world, unseen.
The tore, rent, is sent churling, by a forked instrument, till it strikes the gate’s curling in astonishment.
Fair spectators clasp flowers, cast in lots on the clods; the collection of hours spent in fields at lauds.
Within choruses chanting, through this vast hippodrome, lifts, the Spirit of hunting; sits, Diana, enthroned.
Till, at last! The gilt magnate of the crowd’s bent esteem (in the gleam of the agate, of the agate’s grit-gleam),
whirls a rouge for the pedant at its caperous charge; the illusion-divergent for the tore-beast, at large.
The wide smile of a victor bears the toreador, to the thundering spector: the arena-toror.
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