(no subject)
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
Random (Lyrae) Dent is reading poetry.
A book of Poe, in fact. Currently, Spirits of the Dead lies open, and she thoughtfully runs her fingers down notes, some in musical notation (those she hums) and some in writing (those she murmurs to herself, committing to memory).
She wants, so much, to understand them.
That may yet be her undoing.
But, all scariness aside, she is just a dark-looking sixteen-year-old girl reading poetry in a chair by the fireplace. If you'd like to talk to her, go right ahead.
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
Random (Lyrae) Dent is reading poetry.
A book of Poe, in fact. Currently, Spirits of the Dead lies open, and she thoughtfully runs her fingers down notes, some in musical notation (those she hums) and some in writing (those she murmurs to herself, committing to memory).
She wants, so much, to understand them.
That may yet be her undoing.
But, all scariness aside, she is just a dark-looking sixteen-year-old girl reading poetry in a chair by the fireplace. If you'd like to talk to her, go right ahead.