Poetry
FitzGerald is my favorite.
I don't give a damn 'bout no modern translation.
Max Ernst makes me happy.
The room in my head has painted this on the wall in large, sprawling letters opposite the bed:
WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Forests creep up the back of the bed. There's a small, circular canopy. There's a long, gothic window and the room is high high up.
And I guess it's time throw away the easter chocolate orange now that the ants have found it (again).
I don't give a damn 'bout no modern translation.
Max Ernst makes me happy.
The room in my head has painted this on the wall in large, sprawling letters opposite the bed:
WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Forests creep up the back of the bed. There's a small, circular canopy. There's a long, gothic window and the room is high high up.
And I guess it's time throw away the easter chocolate orange now that the ants have found it (again).