I am upset.
I'm not a robot. I am human. See? I have feelings. And right now I feel upset and angry and although I am trignt o stay calm, I have to evict these thoughts from my head, so this is the platform onto which they land when I throw them out the window.
Poe is a little depressing.
So is my newest favorite poet, Christana Rossetti.
Here is a recent favorite:
After Death
The curtains were half drawn; the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where, through the lattice, ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
"Poor child, poor child"; and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head.
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.
It's sarcastin and a little vengeful. Not that I am one for vengence, but, it was used well in this poem. Rossetti is obsessed with death. I love that. She's not terribly depressing (I find Poe is more depressing than Rossetti) but she is not the happiest woman either.
By the way I have a crush on mermaids for now.
Sigh. I must go to work now.
Goodbye.
Poe is a little depressing.
So is my newest favorite poet, Christana Rossetti.
Here is a recent favorite:
After Death
The curtains were half drawn; the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where, through the lattice, ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
"Poor child, poor child"; and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head.
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.
It's sarcastin and a little vengeful. Not that I am one for vengence, but, it was used well in this poem. Rossetti is obsessed with death. I love that. She's not terribly depressing (I find Poe is more depressing than Rossetti) but she is not the happiest woman either.
By the way I have a crush on mermaids for now.
Sigh. I must go to work now.
Goodbye.