When the poet of a bygone age
Spoke of breezes amorous in gardens,
Oceans in travail and skies in rage,
Cliche overlooked, wasn’t he carelessly
Perpetrating the pathetic fallacy?
Such conceits may, after all, be pardoned
In a drivelling scribe who was verbally
Too exuberant in his hyperbole,
When nature ran
Scheduled to plan
In spite of man.
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