“It’s all the perfect verse turned crisp, Quincy,” Arch continued as he walked over and leaned against the rail on which Quincy sat, looking over the ocean. “It’s the press of the apple and the grape, strained through an imperfect language—albeit the poets strive for perfect expression—taken then to your presses of ink and set down for a world who will need to remember that the preamble to winter makes the cold bearable. A reminder that beauty still lingers. It’s Keats, Quincy!”
