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Within our happy castle there dwelt one whom without blame i may not overlook for never sun on living creature shone who more devout enjoyment with us took: here on his hours he hung us on a book, on his own time here he would float away, as doth a fly upon a summer brook; but go tomorrow,or be like today, seek for him, he is fled; and whither none can say
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Sunday rests, with echoes of creation's song,
A week of arts, where passions belong.
In every stroke, a glimpse of beauty's trance,
In every creation, a moment to enhance.
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Thursday weaves, with threads of intricate design,
A tapestry of dreams, where visions intertwine.
In every stitch, a tale is spun so fine,
In every pattern, echoes of a divine design.
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