Captain?""Yeah?""Do you think it was destiny that brought us together?"He squinted and, after a thoughtful moment, shook his head. "No. I'm pretty sure it was Cinder.
I haven't used my glamour since I was twelve years old,_ she whispered, gaze piercing as if it were very important to her that Scarlet understand this. __ot since I was old enough to control it. That's why the visions come to me. That's why I'm going mad.
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I haven't used my glamour since I was twelve years old,_ she whispered, gaze piercing as if it were very important to her that Scarlet understand this. __ot since I was old enough to control it. That's why the visions come to me. That's why I'm going mad.
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Always choose the adventure ... unless, it's chilly outside and there's a cup of warm coffee resting near a book and comfy sofa.
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.
This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.
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