When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
The hyssop-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kidron stream:
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.
-W. B. Yeats
December 10 2005, 18:34:03 UTC 6 years ago
No joke. Him, and Hawthorne, and maybe Thoreau.
Hawthorne was foxier.
December 10 2005, 18:40:23 UTC 6 years ago
December 10 2005, 18:52:15 UTC 6 years ago
Annnnd since I just switched over to Manson, it's KILLIN' TIME. Watch yo' back, Thoreau. Though, I must admit, there are parts of Walden that I genuinely like.
{& We're TOTAL literary dorks. I love us.}
December 10 2005, 18:56:42 UTC 6 years ago
**sigh** OO Manson