eight by eight in the eight ways we hate and the eight ways we ate eight by eight just in time to find the eight ways to die and end it all there are only those now thin and slim now the edge of life can only be cut eight ways now, now, that I've known you
Another photograph was of twenty whooping cranes taking off at once—the note on the back said that it took Gordon three weeks to find a place where there were that many whooping cranes; there are only about four hundred of them in the world, and a lot of them are in captivity.
Hate is not only appropriate but demanded
And not only in these trying times of ours
I won't show you anything, we'll just exchange lies for a while.\ read
- Caro, Robert A., The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the fall of New York, New York: Knopf, 1974.
Impossibility is not a realm isolated from the possible, with its own curious customs and countryside.
Impossibility: a dark leap from the surface of logic uncaptured by God's good grace.
I can't imagine how awful meeting most of you would be, but I imagine it'd be worse than I can imagine.
The foundations of logic are deep and beyond remonstrance, place your criticisms as you would depth charges in the Marianas Trench.
Hate and love are as nothing against the onslaught of our great and beauteous indifferences.
You do not come dramatically, with dragons That rear up with my life between their paws And dash me butchered down beside the wagons, The horses panicking; nor as a clause Clearly set out to warn what can be lost, What out-of-pocket charges must be borne Expenses met; nor as a draughty ghost That's seen, some mornings, running down a lawn. It is these sunless afternoons, I find Install you at my elbow like a bore The chestnut trees are caked with silence. I'm Aware the days pass quicker than before, Smell staler too. And once they fall behind They look like ruin. You have been here some time.
How Soon Hath Time
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is: if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.
It's not wrong, it just ain't happen to be right neither is all
Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels"Skin of the Eyes" "lower canada 1791-1840: social change and nationalism" by fernand ouellet.