PinnedGérard Manley Hopkins SJOn this flaming day in June, with such beautiful pagan mountains rising all around, I felt your uncertain presence in this bastion of the…Dec 18, 20226Dec 18, 20226
PinnedPublished inThe LarkWaiting for NovemberHis headstone verses were writ in wineSep 23, 20216Sep 23, 20216
PinnedThe unsaidWind cuts through this January night Slices like a knife through my meagre clothes. Signs on the road hidden by an iron fog The cry of…Feb 7, 20218Feb 7, 20218
PinnedJohn Keats 31 October 1795– 23 February 1821Melancholy’s lack of zest written all over his palimpsest: to die at twenty-five to some will hardly seem to have been alive, but for…Apr 19, 20214Apr 19, 20214
Published inScuzzbucketA cruel deceitBut I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. (Iago, ‘Othello’, Act 1 Scene 1)Just nowJust now
Published inThe LarkThe Loneliness of the SoulRemember — remember this is now and now and now — live it feel it cling to it — Sylvia Plath1d ago11d ago1
Published inLiterally LiteraryHELPLESSOur sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought: Percy Bysshe Shelley4d ago14d ago1
