Aug 21, 2010 | Fiction, Poetry |
The morning sun serenely warms and gilds The rye and corn still damp in dewy fields, The sky has kept the freshness of the night. One wanders out just for the sake of it, Beside the river with dim yellow weeds, Along a grass path edged by alder-trees. The air is...
Dec 20, 2006 | Fiction, Poetry |
we are the hollow men we are the stuffed men leaning together headpiece filled with straw. alas! our dried voices, when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass or rats’ feet over broken glass in our dry cellar. shape without form,...
