I, while the gods laugh, the world’s vortex am;Maelström of passions in that hidden seaWhose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me;And in small compass the dark waters cram.
He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt.
It was not often that Flay approved of happiness in others.
For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.
If seeing her an hour before her lastWeak cough into all blackness I could yetBe held by chalk-white walls
If seeing her an hour before her lastWeak cough into all blackness I could yetBe held by chalk-white
In great thick dusty books he readAnd hardly ever went to bedBefore it was e
I, while the gods laugh, the world’s vortex am;Maelström of passions in that hidden seaWhose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me;And in small compass the dark waters
From daybreak to sunset she turned her thoughts, like boulders, over. She set them in long lines. She rearranged their order…
Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.
Each day we live is a glass roomUntil we break it with the thrustingOf the spirit and pass throughThe splintered walls to the green pasturesWhere the birds and buds are breakingInto fabulous song and hueBy the still w
How’s the blood-stream, my dear, invaluable little woman? How’s the blood-stream?”…”It’s quite comfortable, sir…I think, sir, thank yo
His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.
I want a big breakfast,” said Fuchsia at last. “I want a lot to eat, I’m going to think today.
She had shown him by her independence how it was only fear that held people together. The fear of being alone and the fear of being different.
The vastest things are those we may not learn.We are not taught to die, nor to be born,Nor how to burnWith love.How pitiful is our enforced returnTo those small things we are the masters of.
And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears- the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?
His mother stood before him like a monument. He saw her great outline through the blur of his weakness and his passion. She made no movement at all.
Meanwhile Bellgrove had been savouring love’s rare aperitif, the ageless language of the eyes.
Here, are the stiffening hills, here, the rich cargoCongealed in the dark arteries,Old veinsThat hold Glamorgan’s blood.The midnight miner in the secret seams,Limb, life, and
She had expressed herself, as women will, in a smug broadside of pastel shades. Nothing clashed because nothing had the strength to clash; everything murmured of safety among the hues; all was refinement.