The perilous yellow sun follows with its slant eyes masts of the shuddered grove steaming up to capsize in the frozen straits of Epiphany. February has fewer days than the other months; therefore, it's more cruel than the rest. Dearest, it's more sound to wrap up our sailing round the globe with habitual naval grace, moving your cot to the fireplace where our dreadnought is going under in great smoke. Only fire can grasp a winter! Golder unharnessed stallions in the chimney dye their manes to more corvine shades as they near the finish, and the dark room fills with the plaintive, incessant chirring of a naked, lounging grasshopper one cannot cup in fingers.
Next 10 Poems
- Anne Bronte : A Fragment
- Anne Bronte : A Hymn
- Anne Bronte : A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep
- Anne Bronte : A Reminiscence
- Anne Bronte : A Voice From The Dungeon
- Anne Bronte : A Word To The Calvinists
- Anne Bronte : A Word To The 'elect'
- Anne Bronte : Alexander And Zenobia
- Anne Bronte : An Orphan's Lament
- Anne Bronte : Appeal
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