rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The lingering light invites me out these evenings, and there I watch the oak branches, newly decorated with clusters of leaves, darken to silhouettes against the cerulean sky. The birds fall silent and the frogs begin to croak, but the air is quiet. Later, I know, the night wind will come, softly at first, then strongly enough to make the pines hum, but for a few hours there will be stillness, and the moon will rise and turn the stars pale, and the fresh scents of spring will fill the world. There is no chill to send me back into the house. Nothing not essential will get done for the next few evenings, I suspect. Spring commands it. I am content to obey.

Sunday Verse


by Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

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