And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO __ven when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.___ICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow_ Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow __as wings,_ however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso __orvo,_ although con dizionario io parlo Italiano_ this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too_ my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow_ gioièllo mio_ I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a
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TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO __ven when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.___ICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow_ Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow __as wings,_ however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso __orvo,_ although con dizionario io parlo Italiano_ this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too_ my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow_ gioièllo mio_ I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a
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Love is an exorcism of angels.
Sing a song of suspense in which the players die.Four and twenty ravens in an Edgar Allan Pie.When the pie was broken, the ravens couldn't sing.Their throats had been sliced open by Stephen, the new King.The King was in his writing house, stifling a laughWhile his queen was in a tizzy of her bloody Lovecraft.When the dead maid got the garden for her rank as royal whore,King's shovel made it double and he married nevermore.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.
The concept of country, homeland, dwelling place becomes simplified as "the environment" -- that is, what surrounds us, we have already made a profound division between it an ourselves. We have given up the understanding -- dropped it out of our language and so out of our thought -- that we and our country create one another, depend on one another, are literally part of one another; that our land passes in and out of our bodies just as our bodies pass in and out of our land; that as we and our land are part of one another, so all who are living as neighbors here, human and plant and animal, are part of one another, and so cannot possibly flourish alone; that, therefore, our culture must be our response to our place, our culture and our place are images of each other and inseparable from each other, and so neither can be better than they other.
I do not mean, of course, that we can always accurately express our conscious thoughts with Proustian accuracy. Consciousness overflows language: we perceive vastly more than we can describe.