The Home of Regulated Thought
The Home of Regulated Thought
A few tossed thrushes save
That carolled less than cried
Against the dying rave
And moan that never died,
No bird sang then; no thorn,
No tree was green beside
Them only never shorn —
The few by all the winds
And chill mutations born
Of Winter’s many minds
Abused and whipt in vain —
Swarth yew and ivy kinds
And iron breeds germane.
Facebook Twitter Buffer Pinterest Gmail LinkedIn Dear One Absent This Long While By Lisa Olstein It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;everything blooms coldly.I expect you. I thought one…
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Emerald Book ClubFacebook Twitter Buffer Pinterest Gmail LinkedIn Hymn To Adversity By Thomas Gray Daughter of Jove, relentless Power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hourThe Bad affright, afflict the…
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Joshua
