#‘i wrote down her quite that poetry is the music of being human’

[wereoz]

at poetry live listening like oh u want me to make a collage out of this poetry so bad……. so i will

[whitecatlegend]

Chapter 153 (Highs and lows of life are inseparable)

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Apologies for the wait! This chapter was unexpectedly hard - poetry often is, but this time it was poetry that hasn't been translated into English fully, and quite a complicated one at that. I admittedly did not expect that when I promised to try and post two chapters at once a month ago...

The song in the second half of the chapter is an excerpt from Luo Binwang's The Imperial Capital, a somewhat well-known example of the genre of capital poems.

Luo Binwang and Wu Zetian had... a history. He used to hold an official position in Chang'an, but criticized Wu Zetian quite a bit and was eventually demoted and sent away from the capital (that was in 684, before Wu Zetian was crowned Emperor and moved the capital to Luoyang). After that, he wrote a particularly scathing declaration against her as part of a resistance against her rule (It starts with "The wrongfully ruling Lady Wu has a disagreeable temper and a dishonorable ancestry," and kind of goes downhill from there; it's quite an interesting piece the translation to which you can find in Luo Binwang's wikipedia article).

Luo Binwang was killed in the resistance, but Wu Zetian was both rather amused by the aforementioned declaration and impressed by his other work, so she was the one who ordered for his writings to be published.

After making the translation, I still had to cut it down to fit into the speech bubbles, but here is a rough full version of these lines with an equally rough commentary (take it with a slight grain of salt - I'm hardly an expert):

In summer mornings, the wine gourds fill the air with hundreds of smells, In autumn nights, exquisite lanterns are dimly lit.

(The commentaries seem to agree that these lines refers to singing, dancing and indulging in the illusion of pleasure-seeking; I'll take their word for it)

Emerald green curtains do not shine alone, The voice and the zither depend on one another.

Zither here is actually a se - a 25- or 16-stringed instrument similar to a zither. The curtains need lanterns to bring out the color, same as music is most pleasant when there is both a voice and a musical instrument.

Remembering thirty-six thousand days of being right, Rather than knowing the mistakes of the past forty-nine years.

This one's trickier. 36000 days is roughly 100 years, a human lifetime; 49 years of mistakes is a reference to Zang Boyu - a Wei state minister, who is famous for saying how at 50 years old he remembered the mistakes of the past 49 years. I can't quite figure out if it's meant to be praise or admonishment; it looks like this poem in general somewhat struggles with conveying clearly if it's praising or condemning the kind of things it's describing. For some more information, I will have to send you to The Poetry of the Early Tang by Stephen Owen - it's an old book, but it seems to still be held in high regard by modern researchers.

Since ancient times glory and fame were like floating clouds, You cannot split off the highs and lows of human life.

And that's the passage I can't take credit for! Kept Owen's translation here since he provided it in his book, these lines seem self-explanatory.

"I established the dynasty" - while Wu Zetian's official rule is generally viewed in the context of the Tang dynasty, reminder that she technically established her own Zhou dynasty of which she is the only ruler.

[libidomechanica]

For which many a gem, like one resign a

A ballad sequence

               I

For which many a gem, like one     resign a mosque so noble, flung like to sleep with you, to     endure this the Oake again I am their prize a sot,     alive, ridicules. Thee, gentle peaceful sleeps. Is no one     to ask his money, you

are, you who was refreshed. In the     leopards play’d the beares, some living pearly grain: he tries     rosbif. We’re not kept, hath lent; vnable quite unnatural     whirl, called Marriage bed, and seemed to crown the pit and more in     three days. Sands, now Momus;

and loose; my eyes there are so;—a     male Mrs. After ages, knelt to Lucifer or Baal,     when this foolish mortal man, as purple robe he wore, o’erhead,     of those circles moved. Blanc-mange and Wisdom be shine opposite!     This is so contempt.

               II

Nowhere nymph we view, all how true!     Just now, and there was their rank thought on poets roll who Greek     worships its fair he sees

all bath’d in that wish form the woods;     of lofty trees, thou eternal slaves? We lap a’ danc’d the     broad beam had crosses and

her mother house than gratify,     like a foreign film sans subtitles, fall like Paradise,     in such sallies green altar,

O mystery. While a glow     upon the judgment pluck; and yet thou never guiltless minute.     Have made transubstance,

and hang theyr stead perforce content     to the wind. Oblige their own sweeter chance ever love. Alas     the saddle art, girt

fast asleep, dear under-ground     preparation was one, so full of the fury still air is     Music slumber: not that,

that might not have sufficed, but always     choosing with delay’d, answer; but he took their hides, to     furnish the blacked-out window

of a name the wealth hast thy     mouldy mammoths, grand Cuvier! And sound as prompture deep, the     leaves were never had a

dove’s pinions to flie; I must spell     out of heaven, or yet in her that graffed to the rose     is the poor thing to me

for thee. Our two skeletons. A     city which cannot be thy love: there’s a lake in     Ohio called token of

virtual supportress of time,—     sluggish and boy, his eyes a boat sliding hip to sex. Return,     I am an

antichamber up, close my eyes; but     by the hid scent in bristling bank of the heart of the woman     blushed and mouth to mine!

               III

Whose ancestors are, it was getting dark all else!     He looks, blazing under hear. So stately music in a forest branches more sublime     consonants apiece; and find at first,

one intellectual things went echoing dispell’d,     glory gaping o’er a space opens a lane to the sweet loves his work, scraping from     strange that now were several part, her

vitall threde so sore, the larger wove in woman’s     being their enemy retire, the latch, and soul, we must be: where, some knotty problem,     that some to it dearly! Strangers

shelt’ring from the solitary day, crosses are     smooth’d for a year or men! Because a little question, for if I wrote down and the Hall!     Hye thee impart, and yet again

unclenched tight, and made things right. He fainted do allow     for being great, ankle or some to eat; so Philomele her mine! Marble, mixt     red and could encline. Famous, however,

and regret—no major tension in the ledger     live you blindly. Like a tulip on the rooms of a shop called Marriage feast, the current     slipping naked left a thousands

of tears, the Wise. Admit nothing to each other     a barbette, ’ of Danube could, were I to weare, now is leagued young man I know what doth     parch their wings waving. Loves, yet wanted

to him;—as also in thrall! Of us sobbing,     not giving all maskes my wo, come, come, with speak of poetry, at least all men, puzzles     more than what we before the coastal

highways of advance, this very loves attend     the sinks, touching thighs caressed, twas but a lass wi’ a tocher, then the heauens doe melt into     human kiss! Chipped beam has tir’d the

priestes crewe, and wets the arms so idly lain amongst     them at once the blow which I shall ever be parted. Than with thy Muses well: then     say my part must be, in lost all ever

be partial language rather perish with its     crop with this sweeter blood, and lying on the third is neither knots, yet I would what it     soothing towards heaven raining a tune

I have thee; nor see despaired,—been happy. And thy     perfect seisure? So light thronged steeds, with such a thing akin: some peculiar mystic heaven’s     will, on our way through the fern on

the World, and awakes—and, strange she shines, in except     this flea our two blood wide, and slow time, ending for you, gentle limbs of light in her     vineyard—yes! Till I to children are

bad. That much passionate light on me. Whence called     gravitation, the color of the hollows in shambles, viewers be still a-falling through     the Eyes of Man, the rain. That in Heaven;

but mostly my antipodes; but I forbid?     Fit appellation till in Chloe dies. He cried—and so I kissed to lie; he has     not a kindred pain, to set up vain

pretend; asham’d to own the Galaxy. In this     bold brere had been a lodger; i’ve serv’d the single mind make me fret? Remember, and he     raised these pleasant fields! More endymion,

weep not so much water rushing to you. Hard words     went in a deeper. Of decorative disquiet every that I may not love which may     not happens rarely: this he present

all: and, for his words wherein campeth, spread stories     of the dewy morning pale. The flouds odorous. For my low stile afford to give. Beauties     budde, reliuen not forth with large half-

mushrooms; for what it was better to be another’s     charms fly at the wind and kitsch. Net I seek,—for both at least light applause, save     Locke, as doen advaunce: the sacrifice?

               IV

Is myne for some relieve, except     this spoil her soul two souls up in us like brow is ruffled     step, by a warbles,

and enticing lies. Fearful     meditation; perhaps, despair, and down they repair: that mourn     according as a punk;

chaste to her fair, and therefore was     transfer where the saddle art, girt fast by me be maintain’d     with a mobile nose she

moved, she went. Be she will be ador’d,     as the gloomy pair of Heavenly hides and is place:     but not sad? Future day!

Whose brink of her advice. Will fling     it down on her long-lost child, thought! Still I do. Weeps incessantly     for one whose

unclouded, but a world will wail thee,     and sighes breath, so, sure and fro, ever about the     Firmament outblackens

Erebus, and fact is truly lov’d     at such desolate, on which when I shall he sees all bath’d     in this natural heat shot

to his distress her, she could     recollects young playmate, and wine. For I must allow, so narrow     like pearls. Its day. Which

that Firmán-issuing, we shall     partake thee made her face; there’s a seal the firm soil win     of the Gods and wishes,

is her wanted that very river     or seasons audite I do goe, and Phoebus’ lips? Of     bread. My skirtful of dust,

and thoughts of the spiteful things I     tremble of my own, my sweetest Sorrow! At flow; but what     ye are too happy may

he be, that reads it, being dispell’d,     as one who dies, they all mortal muse thy flight, I’ve far     to gang, and makes it

difficult to shun some distinguish’d     strangers in another is call’d Salámán fell short in     your little space between

you can using girl, her than an     unbidden present and blank, made more came to harvest wheat.     Started—the sounds adrift

from either hope nor trust; may make     my louely life permit. When believe him to God’s life o’ercast,     chill came to fight from

my eyes, his honors give a guess     the wealth I haue most counts my selfe a bankrout know! Of age,     and there’s a youth I

want, who away would not stir his     eyes have given to her loved right of a single fabric     that never, rarely clear.

               V

Hands on my pacing steed, and that     is told. More than one as my father’s dwelling. Haste, in     violence pursu’d, nor tresspass’d

beyond the land of wonder,     and I should let him beyond my yesternight good visions     of steeples peeping in

sight was getting others, and with     Faith thou my little bird, tender side the air. With flowers,     the ripens spirit-blow

was bent with many fights, and thing:     so when my mastery: a third time pass’d away. Nor mines     of happy bought for you

That Mississippi chicken shack.     A little things plain pudding, slops into pure Wine, the     mornefull Muse in me do

flowe! Each to each other left his     honest fame shouldst be own’d with the same look well awake, knowing     you can get nachos.

               VI

But coughs when he saw that each pass’d, like the town’s right.     But still silent land; when rattling bones together, be lucky together worth! Back     to the same fragrant oils with softness,

gather’d how he suffer more wretch! Gentle friend, who     was much by poet, must come at last, to follow Bacchus through the pricked eares? Is poor     beast! As are, it was blawn, and brush a

web or two cheek to hold. To scare there like pallid     lilies another fit she single mind of that had drunk within the wide forester,—     forgetters, your idle wrath! But if

sadde winter with you, than aught well fare. And that had     left by, Norman; took one hand in slumbering of my own full time unto the bright summer     the clasping at the croupe the mirrors

show. Scots to see an old age of a question,     for had he done his laugh at times he faintly, far away! Language you do deceived and     looking up repentant to kill. Of

the World, who hath not so new, although little     dissipated; which lovely sounds, wears that beach we could be about the inspector eleven     they grow again in haste, nor did

speed possess’d, his breast, hands, in return, with wondrous     soul! Because she’s woo’d, but heavily por’d on his Horse over the trees their bottom did     them find out hiss If you ain’t neva

have these, dear brother to his pocket, risking in     their narrow gorge, and lay without sigh or tear perhaps too late, let in his veins; then hey,     for any good. Do not die, nor laugh’d,

or to cross a broad-leaved Myrtle, meet emblem     in the Noose of Apprehension in the wind. Shall be true to thaw the first; For all my     toils might hand. Polluted with dust, stript

to his recruits with, lotting off. By all that, yet,     as this: Once you, your bosom, and speak of him than me, keeping his return’d: both lovely     her faith! No longer there I never

thinking as a punk; chaste Cathering at set of     day! Stallion-hoofed falls on the bedclothes of perverse, in the beds were empty cells. The     bloud springs, shall Time’s chest lie down the

rolling gracious is as far from the town’s submission’d     her hand holds my hand to the moon forgot.—For cash and weal, will drop their smiled, A mass     of bright contain! In blood, and now mans

wrong, and wide there a sound-like power to chant thy     clear air, leaving his ivy tent, onward these are but two Turkish ladies, while her lips     the cloud thy blood, nor even now, through

the condemned see. Is ruffled; there was racing and     dark old place, a body of bone, half- solved to spread as is a cushion a preached to those     supremest kiss her and darke: the Muses,

the musk of their kettle-drums a new voice, but     as she ought there is none the naturally loves me dear ruin each wreaths: how soon the rain;     I shall it cannot live: but left us

first cast in fact they thinkin o’t, we’re a’     dry wi’ drinkin o’t. And lying been; but for the Turks could look not bid old Apollonius:     something congenital perhaps

she handed on to thee as a flowing. With     an inferior, as I live, though window and that he must allow, so narrow teeth     rotted out as usual term of

travellers: the rising of my skirtful of all     miss out of doubt, they are men were ready money, made in the shop window crossed with thy     beauty’s doom and daughter in the chaste,

haste away she touch of that lives and there was no     pere: so well thewed, and knelt adown that deep despair! There is no light the then returning     sigh? Better to make tomorrow

I will be read. That just once, you deeply painful     results since Time begins to swerve. Then hey, for an aged Tree on the springeth from the     fierce! Say, what came from their happy love!

               VII

Like an eagle’s with greate she was     humming an air, their native hell. That nys on earth and     sanguineous as twas only

paid, tell her thighs caress, as if     a little, so you lookes downe, so semest thou not aided     me? The only law.

               VIII

The ends, let not Time’s fell hand defaced,     which makes verse when a mother worthie to applie. And if thou     art desolation or

quiet would encline. For as the     change alike, no season knows he makes the bloom misted this     sharp checkes I in myself,

by turns to Sleep. Seven more     lovelorn piteous pleasure they by: alas! We don’t witnessed     their surprising your

fists into your reasonable hurt     to be vext with buds and close for a year; the one I carried     are. Nothing whip leisure

to renew: for all that I     had bene thy soul hath wearied me deep enough, which once     dead, long dead, since in wild

sad eyes—so kissed, but in the ends,     let not to take effect fell but none wanting in mind make     more I think that would kill

the limits here? All gatherine.     Many meete to compounds strong forces. My debt in being     is done, Salámán bent

to dwell in little wood, each wish     of my beloved friends with faint reflected light blush seep     through very selfishness!

               IX

And, all say, and all things, it is     when dead I’ll bend, bending faithful with forever.—That in     the moonless nights, going

to Jove alone at the world has     been tost into a camp: I know the whole fief, in property,     it works of fire; and

their Maister is this? I blow them     I burn. Do’t in Prose. Rose Aylmer, whom I loved the vapoury     lair. His sluggish forbeare.

Praise, painting my mother could     one to surrenders, heav’n, the talks of common ruin falling     into bloom in. He

did love, failure, if I could throws     a cloud thy blood, and maist thou redeeming congenital     perhaps she’ll hate you will!

               X

I called to each dress here-spent hours     be nothing, my woes in Rhime now, and shower fell, I though     the wind lives. Peace sitting.

               XI

Need to to see that will happens     in the grass, does to faint and weak; I love you. That never     slander doth but flicked

from its veterans reward his service     with newer purple clouds wrapped wet in a cold climate,     stopp’d em. And my hearse be

vext with the dawn and truth of my     heart contrary, but none fitter perching on my doorway?     So in three days’ journey

have time is coming on my father!     The way physician, blabbing the earth and say take it     ill: he show’d themselves a

little as this spoil it with this     can you turned the working hinge …. Of some euill were the solid     ground so leave her name upon

drill—for love. Is frowns overwrought     him ashamed to mankind like: a blues song; I chirped,     cheeped, trilled and red

marmalade outside. Like one resign’d     and being is heap’d the Cock, in Heaven’s air: let thy     hours. Behind the lieu of

drawing on thee—on thee, wretched     we! What are all that is worst desert: but kneel adown is     dwarfed and wake with number.

Periphery pinned with that     Memory wakes us loud bleat from him keep my mind where o’erheard     the quantity

encumbered on the same quaint, uninterest,     I may not love with a narrow teeth at the fact’s     about the lines of

happiness at its watery pinned     with seraphim and dark, and soft, that is it not forth the     Promethean clay by this

little dog will repeats itself     careening question’d those clothed with mutual flame. The wit,     the coastal highway from

God you have ditties made; and the     empyrean I have loved right of Albany. Still with Blood.     Your feet like a shell with

another’s is the little, though     now my Muse, thought our brow and the vallies of the burro,     too real for his Signal—

sees it on horses, though I die     thirst to meet oblivion beyond earth’s feat and her breast     lie down and desideratum!

Wedlock and kick your skin     can’t repeat nine names are the first a fit successor. Their     efforts should reproof darts,

O beloved I lost you, i’d     have felt so faint in which ripen’d Eden’s freed, no more     he died. As rare in sagging

downe, so sweet, so fair. Poor little,     thought, life’s gay scenes must quaile, as vertue service do, mayest     heart was extremely hand.

               XII

It is sometime at the first time.     At news of pursuit. With April’s fires fade: exit seraphim     and undefiled;

her wild sad eyes—so kissed, but behold,     before me, in this very puzzling frame? If Homer     had fought is Royal blest,

toasts live there presseth all the rainbow     wroth, life and death bugs me as stubborn as yet have been     presumptuous though ’t

will silent air, or tiny point     in Heav’nly gift of poesy! In Elisian field which, howe’er     the cossette, well her

my pains to burn, then Kidde of     Cossacques for soaring the river’s brief night of memories     and sweeps plastic-gloved worker

handing in a first-born flower.     Her needs must finishing, and Grisi yet light was before,     a house where their light

is past us Veil’d—but every     worldly things for me; plant thou be able to go although     her sweethearts does not need

my boots but I grow perplex me     so! Made prostitute and Despair. But here doth close so close     my eyes are born to be

content. Rumours: some sucking his     lovely pallor which in my heart from thee, heart-honored     But oh, ye goddess-like.

               XIII

He scent, and the ledger live and     armor should be now under her sake; but ev’ry woman     in thy constant arms to join the dark tresses. Men, some to     spoil her nape caught drooping

flower, untried each other; let     us nothing silk or taffeta, which heauens doe melt in     teares flowe in their taste, ’ as some veins of cares to come, chiding     royally did her

husband, like a spectral bride; for     cats and how with thine angel eyes may seem a fault? Savory,     latter days had risen on barren souls. From his mystic     grace those ninety year

old who refuse, no, not one that     I have ever lov’d a nothing gives a man, if that rude     hut, without, passing bell. Thine age asks ease, and step aside;     and the young man, to whom

every wandering whence called Hope     Lake wherein could even her sense, how I may know. Long tunes     and round by the day I sought how thou doest prayse and old, so     is my love, found that the

snow cover me. She rises crescent     he had fought she shoulders with head of course ne’er denied,     but always why I want to gravel the flower in lightning,     noon, and thou should forget

more than vile esteem’d, whether     from the World of love bearing. She look’d again unclenched,     and a lean. Quake, thearth shronke vnder through my half-closed their church with     flower, and beauty in

its birth—Despair meet in some sullen     conquest, as if the sea, and bare shew cold to that euer     that fills the poor. Hast, noy gynnes to my ankles into     the Muse at a push to

follow them I burn. Queen myself,     appears in their heads, as thy own? And point it at my should     stare, and in your eye’s tail up as I shook upon the     Danube’s bank took formidable

charge with proud birds fly, and     half the Church and palsied fancy, which shall not see you blindly.     Fell short of stone ice- cold whatever I do! For to     make, and love and me.

Translated, heartbreak, woe, what was Ismail,     and conversations understood when Londonderry     drawling again unclenched, and show’d a fever, longinge.     But her languish’d to Moscow,

led by the loftier station:     but a trice, you will never yet to the primroses!     Ah, my Perilla, after this, that royal right reading     brilliant such would rather

take me fit for the proof of awful     richness never a March-wind sigh away to a man,     if their church, as the beare when it was to talk to you, lawful     and sun, as thou said

not choose but weep for me. Were both     love, and perils in the dusk—the dusk heaven to hear her,     O! Part from an urn And who that the wrong! Of the mountains,     and the full faint degree,

and twang’d it inwardly, and Rousseau,     who march’d Abyssinia rouse and woes began to whirr     and characters at discretion his purpose. It soothing     but by my faithfully.

               XIV

I know not hear. Completes the Imperfectly they     walk’d when though t was dawn, the rapturous cheer, beautiful things are less real than worst deserve,     that every day, to stir their names?

               XV

Under the way she always their     amiable existence before him summ’d the light a     blue hills, wherewith him

how to load and so bent his pride!     Every breathing white told my love, and his heart by heart sophist,     in honour, wonder

of thousand cold as my fate. Pleasure     miss’d his eye, with earth in May is meete tales of truth, I     have sufficed, but that moment

pushing to be glad: o feel     how far above, over the after as the moon is bright.     The might decree more evil

in an under-song in chorus,     cheek to tell you plead yours like a rolling graciously     down Lethe, we tease us

out of sight; my lips were a public     men sometimes it was mere lust light at these were woode, except     that swincke and blossom!

               XVI

As Sappho’s diamonds, on thy auspicious people,     hither, come hand holily displeasure seem profound: she might our fate stop here—a kid     I on this impediment. My love a sister, daughter in the teeming with the     compartment in white lake-like fritillaries

scarce a crimson lights me. He surely canst not     grieves to divine such home-bred glory, show’d a greater is lustlesse and Taste, because he     runs before, if that Frenchmen, gallantly as ever speaks thou flee to meet oblivion     beyond their wings when ye countryman;

with her hate: superior bliss to break. No     longer lament, didonis dead, since thou, with his body. Plunge your mouth with fennel green,     and to this soul by cheating every part; venus is to renew: for all. There are     electrical wires, and joyous and keen:

save wed a year or mend thee, hence remove, let not     to my cheek which descend to die. Step, by a whisper’d from a silver name of cheek, and     perfect best, of touch of a spark, sighs for true image with the danced with the York mail;—but     onward ran through, will waste, as they will

clip an Angel’s wings. Requesting in his swift flight,     as reflection along with his cheating the sweetest for young playmates of satisfy     his craving with their vessel e’er was virgins once dry; but having waved the merriment     of this new and of Vengeance for pow’ring

our ain sweet self resemble, creating wide,     doe interline with schnapps’—sad dogs! The fire ants that are ye who fly around us ever     get to go although not seem on roses fed, your carefull verse. With buds and faith     of a mother loveliness, no

praise is due at all. The moon and that’s hope hope of     life from that wakes us cowards heavens her timid nature in heaven: we know if     you remembrances of cheualrie: but their own self-love quite dead brown from the night, his cave forgive     me for a while, though her utterly,

keen, cruel mocks, annihilate thy widow mourning;     I left them, What made it statesman there is also Best; reason he had turned hast my     life leaks away, thousand show’d a great fall with that Mahomet or Mufti, unless alarms,     the Wise, and his own great. And you

and I, how glad of his feather’d in due ordered     a large dark eyes have faith doth preserv’d the antelope; and Maud is sweet Tibbie Dunbar?     Why have over some ease from field is a new voice, where they would swim in it recite. As     when a mortals each at a great

construction—when lost amidst thou my nurses;—kill a     man’s oppressions lie; vertues braunches broke on mine far under-ground, the God only signs     of power and his gust is greeing, and air, and joined her toilet’s get that love which cannot     choose but know! Be she rent, so my fancy.

To the River-gods, and I desperate doole     to dye. And images of literation or quiet and veneration     commander in chief threw up on Greek i’d have time breaks with all the warm the first word—’Oh.     So golden chaine the orator so

far, whether reioyce. Swells up, then she saw his merits     slight glance those nonsense to prove parental farce! Of Sense; and led the Charactery, but     now of a name thought, was pacing steed, and palsied fancy, pride, he linkt a dead men go;     and that are lost a thing too audacious

Speech many a Jewel utter’d limbs where so I     did not yours only gods she is story down, he might die; we might, through a thousand maidens,     nor stone, he rode all unarm’d, and tall, was not exhilarate. Fortieth spare you     must descend thee; yet eyes dry, season

sadder plight doth melted into Memory quickens     Lovers Each of bursting grace, rose Aylmer, all womankind on the Danube’s border     were most hidden rills into a shadows, melodies, not even shuffled beams: o,     for a distance, and speak of love and

dank, which descends the Turks. Take like their light, the money,     made in this verse want feet, driving. Of Youth as they rose along his love of pleasaunce,     said to the earth a sudden, she still would we wish to warm this marble stones in the heavy     body makes twice down at the Vision

meant, it answer him fair to no purpose. As     when she single fabric that no pace else their scarlet, are generous into the dull     catalogue of comely girl or fair. Where the marshal was made of gracious is as fair     as any that thou mounefulst Muse!

               XVII

And to all but—nothing, and cried,     ah, stay! Stop, let me have come into your eyes maybe looked     at home. Is it peaceful citadel, answered echoes of     an Angel’s wings, ere he

embrace last and dubious shaped     like a minister rain dropped eye, or dress her, she could marry.     Whom he forst them? ’St departure, but a kiss? Still I’ll     prattle like to beholders

on a bed of dew? Said: when     God fails, despite, has a broad-leaved vine, and rich in treasures     might half equal were tired and roars, and take me clever:     this complicating

rage inside my heart, a loyal     mind, while than our rhyme: what then? Two palms and the moor and up,     to be disposed of in a world against us if we     drove the ill, the uncertainty

is one of their merry,     misery? Her wild than Endymion slew me; do smiles     encounter and black? But as foretold; not like weeping turne against     time. When wilt thou start?

               XVIII

Painful blindness now, to swear to     wet a widow’d nation; so that room is eel-black. For in     my frailties why are frail

one’s old resentments level, such     a peer: and therefore. To compelling, exclaim’d! And thus, ye     meadow’s face the surface

neither did that at my head. I’m     so entangle, trammels of an humble salve which happens     in a hurry; thus they

found the thyrsus, that he himself     from silver thrills float heard him crept behind: return, with that     kills me and cried, gazing

undismay’d, with whom I long had     loved blood of innocence and sufferer begins to craze,     be thou hardly name is

Love. Invincible had turned on     women I could grace them proper bounds to my though I despaire,     and the cypress grows.

               XIX

And gazes from no Womb of vows,     when sinews o’er what was’t that yearning sigh? A hollow behind.     I want, who laughs and

vp my rufull ryme, matter of     Winters threat thing them find out love a world again, in the     things are left behind you

ask me to mean so little light,     which Britons, we are; let us play, and beauty’s bust, call     country; and if ye will,

that gaze on so fondly part must     be well their sea-coal canopy; a huge, dun cupola,     like a boy with her pants

upon a decent personal     wall calendar of what I do to the empress Dian,     for one moment a

topiary so these walls, his hands     pillared in a trick to poison’d, tis under hearty meal     upon the kingdom’s at

its feature to renew: for Stellas     sake. I can be borne? A few months, which holds what we see     down-razed and beat, ankle

or some relief must kiss; dead when     the sickle, hour; the lamp and lands—the Mirror of the eagle     bird, tender side, I

sat a weeping to offer upward     from a stock the Top of Heaven. Oh Thou only bedded     her sway, for pity

sang this round Hesperus: lo! Captives     just don’t know you, a woman or manner, the bride’s face.—     There was locust on the

lie and taxes Paradise! But     change his paltry sheet of paper, my bosom’s shop is hanging     empires rose, my

Lady’s eye, I wish I could always     choose better self, and Charlema’ne. For all my morn, and     self was not help but kiss

her: then me! Woe-hurricane tape,     like this excus’d I to resign a mosque. Repeat nine names     forth its crop with this flea

is your meeting flights to perplexity!     The Moon, salámán bent his sorrow took the city’s     shape suggests a families

scuffling on earth nor set     the virtue, ever wouldn’t be yours. But love is as a flower     in a pellet of

clay on a window of a nuptial     chime; soft words, which puzzles more inly smart: and of shatter’d     are of passing stream.

               XX

Anything seen only God’s life     shouldst thou go with me had made things that charm could remember’d     it from its veterans reward

for fair czarina’s autocratic     crest, but one, can every day, in sad reality,     saving mercies healèd

me, a sinful an end. And would,     with those that’s greasy task, withoute longinge? I set her drop?     I hide it from its

loftier stations bred, beheld awake     all night will let her outward for fair neck round is bent,     his who had a handmaid

we meet in my books and that shrild     as lowde as Larke, o carefull hearts were o’er the swallows’     perch,—did you, maiden mild!

               XXI

Know little grim, who knows whether     three more, the smoke rose and palely loitering; for sideways     would like the Nine, apollo’s present they see, know not     hear a dead weight freely,

request the reply. To me this     happinesses unfold from wall to wane and curving a     tythe white or argentine, all along the Turks slept the pleasant     science, this verse and

wild Recess! And things, those choice of     a God. Is mostly my antipodes; but I’ll try to     tell me where quiet on this sweet thief endued, by old     Rhadamanthus’ tongue that is,

if I can heart, did find at rest     with thy hours that for my own soul conspiring witchery     of the banquet-room shone like diamonds, on thy calmly greater,     being happy vintage

hotly pierce that flowed so clear     his crook. The effect: the moons, or hear the world. Letters of     a millions; a country; and I, a tyrants, old with amber     studs, all how true! And

the blood, surveying, drilling, yes.     And wets the little that I may not love you for being     crown’d. Towards the making off him of Reserve. Thus were wed, the     lead and waited but the

night striking out to belongs! And     in less to the roof of dirt is passing stream of blood? What     did I touch she turning of life. To catch you sigh, Thus with     the song is the Foam of

his swift decay wilt thou felt so     constant after new love because I love you the little     ambition. But their worst deserve, that the stain both of us     met on a time has

ever think it would make the church’s     might see each other see how the blessing, taking on a     sudden it is ere with me after I am gone and     pain had no pere: so wert

thou pine when all for thee. Before     our pypes, that she was walking on a shining places     they aren’t afraid of clichés and the slaves? And there were     never watchful with Blood.

               XXII

With such a den to save I would     do.—How the humble and sail; but forth toyes, my wit doth prisoner’s     plate …. So blind Fortune’s

Frolics left him in the baying     that was over my transgression from his first-born flowers,     torches, and soul, outstrips

man, found, his who have you fool, thoughts     and blaze of cheualrie: but the fieldes and our glad Lycius liv’d     a mortal man, who can

know how she is gone down, Come the     ware of passion to my head and war. Chewing a peal to     shake all people suppose

we come attonce. I am not     a bell was blight; for we two look upon you, as you     remember sweetness, o Sorrow,

with sorrow take that he show.     But though I be left. Shone like visions, and gloss, and did yielded,     with tears? Smoking i

know its bad for your goodness grownd,     and not one; my presence through the graceless name is Shame, but     she, and she be fain; but

as he used to each his thousand     panes of her. Began to dawn with dewy locks, who just like     Horse’s, and so dauntless

in war, was teaching his shade of     palm and see how thou dost despised the vast heaven’s gate, that     colors is a common

men grow! The rough stress her, she could,     were I to weare, now is time of me would like the chaste. From     the sky, when, as they

interchange alike, no season chill,     according as necessary. That hear the first; and the     way a man; and lull thy

Secret bowers of autumn for     you, gentle rosy-warm will fly and rough weather. Or honor     decades she is given

in the reformadoes, ’ whom     he press’d me; and I, how glad of him the ocean is folded     and rumble, and holds

her friends or kinsfolk on the     shepeheards swaines me reioyce. The votive frigate, soft Abernethy.     Mastered and while

in the slaves on a stranger in     the shore of the year. Dearest, but when she did create the     Memoirs of the midst of

others’ furs and whisper a slow     shuffle your sake, and foremost on this cannot now this is     this may see from too much

as the windowes now, surrounded     inward grace for our sport, did pleasure time enough. And,     to end thy assistance

could pour my secret core. Above     the brere with my love, even now, through, and cloy’d. A courier     on this day, and shape.

Confess: no matter what dotted     his Banquet Hall like. Of all of fire, dully drop their smiles,     wan as primroses grew.

               XXIII

Millions; a countries of Sorrow!     And the camp was in the fair with a flower and hour or     mortals! Arose and splash,

splash, splash, splash through steps are full, all     that come off handsome gentle, unfair, I shall speak: let me     but die at home. Yet to

rue my smart, the crowds, cuckoo-like,     endangered hatchlings from my obligations and mine What     mad pursuit? Love in a

car, or wander the Horse over     the blest, toasts live air—let me woo thee, with uplift hands out     of a shot glass not one;

a touch I thence ought to thy     everlasting undismay’d, rule, wound, and cold and knelt adown     before it like with flesh,

all that let him in by service     do, mayest hear. You are the serpent—Ha, the sun, down over     hips, those choice of

sugarcane sweet, are the third is neither     die or tire. And joyous and let it be nay, friend!     From one joy, folioed. The

Muse. Nothing so lowde: which vnto that     Endymion, ’tis past expenses. The fatall sister swayed,     all except that wasn’t true.

You did not practised in a     trice, you will to the water pell-mell, and his neck grip the     winds a-wooing flood; thrall,

or ere I had design, asks no     firm hand, ere her silken sails thee? Was blight; lamia, no     longer give birth to warm

us on our way to a marriage.     To whom he spoke, and make a landing on the     (One of all mortal lease.

               XXIV

” The day I said, ‘My name is Love?     I have one tell the world so filled in by missing cymbals’     ring! Through a thousand wreath for Fear. A young beauty alone     can hit em right: such a

peer: and thing to me now. And walls     of crimson varlet but genuine, I think, soft affection     so thrilling and flutes: it is so contempt; which can     overwhelmed the blessing feet,

and with due sublimity, where     you made, if asked they, while I spurre my horse, or be drawn onward     them heart’s lighter tree, of blood as aught, For ever. You     give maidens whispering

is done, in gloss of salt and boy,     his eyes a boat and be it from the staggering giraffe     stretch my lines that can Chloe sure was no vocabulary     for loss in blisses,

a mortal lease. Had turned the inner     clown is going to not waiting for you got it, rubbing     youth and opium, ratafie and the delicious were     mute! Not all the way she

also had not wise if I fled     from the world drops dead; the enamour’d by all with that in     my arms, encirclings too in the end of civilization     and deep as they, while

I with spire and friend in distresses;     tell then, that with no special legend or end us,     with it: so in all the same Fountain whence come anymore.     But beauty alone and

a lean. And, which in treasures scatter     to be and not approximate and always write her     bosom or her bosom; and pulled the Oake cast out, thus to     ruminate, that is She

but fully, truly, know you like,     my faithful in love O soul, as if from things as a dreamed,     ah woe betide, we dancer gave it to me: for death, which     thread until being called

love. And are no other woman.     Rather rage. When I use the wilds the taste her infant laughed     free, starved, feasted with due sublimely rise, rich with Hoof     and to the sweetest form

appear above the shudder in     the surgeon’s carefull verse. That some weekly-strewings below     thine Eyes, waste not that I hate you will! When I have now     to paint a siege, where that

is—Materials, but sweet breath     was born again.—All about thee; and the old womb of night     and an ermin’d pride, is, there together form the fire and     this engines and Courage,

Bat in hand gallop’d a-field, toss’d     down by the ambush of your distresses; tell the way that’s     still thee a tale of new books and could look our marriage bed,     and these sages, health, from

strange, so smooth, so levels to an     assault. Can he do? The first time, he fell forthwith came to     find fault in hand—Did one but knewe we for the blue eyes over     like slang. The Soul of

the draperies, the faded Oake,     whose bodie is sent a courier to the gate. Handsome     gentler dream, shewing a peal to shake. Of wrath with you the     marked they, while to show ye

what you did not come. Greatly aghast     within my arms, and bracelet made this elevation     of a great business was seeking it comes the Imperfect—     Reason is good suffer

sad contractions the abodes     of motion as well as her ignorance to the deep in     the free, let not my own: thy soft complained, and he stopp’d     A private life again!

               XXV

His Bounty doth appear as beams     of colours and gazes from whence came, and profligate the     golden; in her proffered hatchlings freshet yields a bitter     Eldre braunches seare: there ran a sabre through her skies—then houerly     thy laden with many

a venom’d dart at random     flies; but Fame is: for any good. Has a broad-leaved Myrtle,     meet emblems mix with wives. These old bones together, and     I should I thy clear bee- wine. Of the delight into his     Lord, stirring vp sterne strife!

               XXVI

That cruel? Who now command, Field-Marshal     Souvaroff. He mean to moan and his head, pitying     and all my heart-struck by

the day I sought; and I discern     but Thee, nor avarice, nor often heame and the people,     who like to be tost. The

desired. Held sacred shades of     gold that heavy poem again he faintly make a dull     defensive Sara! Their

age’s prudence to Holland’s Hague     and feelings, but—as being in the bold Churchman’s tomb     excited awe, who did the

swete sonne of all my heart would be     thy Love and louder come and I will converse so barren     rocks impregnable are

now no azure vein wander’d how     he suffer’d Infidels in his hands and while as if the     dint of honour’s in

abeyance, for confounded am     withoute longing still exist above me with sacred hands,     I hung stones will not fir’d

her brains and you, fond flyes, thou sit     alone in northern grot, and fine, a city which name of     each, and spare in prisoner

to the hoste of follies youth! Schooling     it touch’d, and the pane I know nor came to a final     end, our wood, that I have

been cut in Phaeton’s time, no truth     that flag what it soothing which though her skill vines that might see     each doth stringed pearls, for Dian

play: dissolve the cathedral;     black and unseen rise—so from the wives of mine, no shape in     mine all fain juno’s proud-

heart suggested some boats, and forth     the second life, the fire of myself years ago when there     beneath a tree, able

for loss in blood made her fair Scotia     hame again; as when thou algate lust of gain, in thee     in the day, and Philomele

her subtle gestures ensure     your oversight. For all. You little Child for Chastity     shall kiss thy pre-

existing sounds conveyance which never     gone, your love the free, thy Shadow falls across a ditch.     The blue sky should equals?

               XXVII

We left behind you what is won.     To follow night, and false friends: or her, to a shallow grave     the works; at which our Faith that is—ask the grief a rich old     lord, and to Barbadoes, which is traditionally designated     great. I hate’ to

me through the Cheek of Laila smite     does she had, however, for very Garment-hem Pollutions     of miles away, so blindness now, to swear to wet     a widow’s tear along his banner. Of nature did it’s     whole, can evening miserable

man, wildered a large enow     to draw the name of being down below carotid-     artery-cutting all my ghost not be said and you in     Grecian tires are rarely. Bred, beheld awakes—and,     stand then destroyed. Had the

gentle soul hath not rise nor set     thee speaks thy tears of Mary. Right too dear, and ioyes enioyes,     they rode upon drill—for the trodde in the elder jack Smith     was fiery flame: which sometime lofty trees, by the Mother,     warn’d him again is

what you see; it hangs still german,     I stood at all art of beauty, and Reigns lord of Heaven     were mute among the awful notes, whose passes, hand down to     that tongue, thy Shadow falls it thy deep kindness, or made them     out to fix again to

Mire. And there to chant thy praise,     to gratified except in the spitefull brere with their     sun. If bright of poesy! Sole sign of many heart … he does     precipitous: I have been the Return of them moved more     for words. Not to belongs!

As when shifted round her throat. Over     knees locked, one leg stuck out with peacefull’st cot, the assault;     in which once dead, forgot! Juan, instead of golden grass     to let me alone. Has roll the rail. With them all, and setting     swarm of Corinthians!

               XXVIII

Come hither: o, why did not choose     but knewe we follow not what campaign; and when on curtains     call Chance, I think on what

it with its white-hot. Be without     the works; at which lovely idleness, nor earth shronke vnder hill     I saw this way! So damp,

which threat: ne euer went, in pale cheek;     no passionate shriek of a few graveyard crossed then to be-     that wondrous sea? And one

word in her aching for all my     soul pass the memory; as one whole in body and scratch     with that shine with the thought

advanced, all subdued, consented,     the very billows pay them that you have sworn to be vnkind,     and oft he perisheth

once in myrth now shall love you, dear,     if it be seized, inside of Netherby Hall, maud the boggy     walk, he flitting

caramels and kind, but of the dark     tresses. Today I reach’d the siren! Of health—when ill, we     call Stella hath, every

shepheard, how hard to be therefore     we all go forward seized, inside its amethyst, puzzled     those nineteen who butcher.

               XXIX

Juvenile and faithless majesty     she street together, you, a woman I loved you, when     he shall not bear a mind is sung in rhymes, save something like     a foreign filth and so he groan’d, as he saw engulph for     ev’ry granted: there’s

no compensate, trying to a     handkerchief so wet it is what I scorne thy vertues braunches     sere. I ever dreams and knowing at the world will wail thee,     young woman and yourself: you are a nation, whose Fountains     mud; clouds befringe their dress,

the ruin’d woodland wild for a lass     wi’ a tocher; the first; and on the moon-struck and unsmooth     of us met on a marble flocks, annihilate the     same sunlight from his hoarie locks as broad-leaved Myrtle, meet     emblems mix with whom spoke

their light is overcast: to those     kings to think that poor soul, we must be in earth: shines, he shall     for the Foam of his Wit would be—a sunbow’s arc above     a waterfall. Present tale is, a non-description; and     I cried, art thou payèd were.

               XXX

A man of many: ‘sodae sulphat.     Thy end is turn’d for cash and with deeper than is the Forms     of Truth, under an arch

of either man who was read; it     is something flash’d in the turn’d with Faith that is won. From the     clatter, in the urn once

my mouth, calling years and all wealth     is honor decayed, his braunch and palely loitering,     though the cause of kill’d’ the

Scotchman in pink but she, and     everything in chorus, cheek a fading royally did wed     myself I praise rehearse

in no ignoble vigour did     he disenthral: ye shall not find at rest withered; now strength,     nor set, haply I may

not happens in the fav’rite blest;     where ships and flouds odorous. Because such outrage, crauing youth     of Caria plac’d the Devil’s

drawing on the custome to     bid farewell! How by the brute blood she glow’d with that gray old     wolf and play. Her pencil

drew whate’er the once here’s not     the aerial blowing of trumpets—Lycius then press’d in     smiles; delight blue hills are

covered with the mill and then sink     downward to be confounded ear; she, why have your hands and     the Grace he gave me grapes

to eat, and takes a strong than the     rose that I an accomplish, with thee and praying to set     up vain pretence—for yet

to lose. Out curt some quality;     nor can I keep it, and shall be my demon eyes! Three shirts     between you the princes

too, that is not enslaving eye:     whence come and good fame may come True. Too dull to mark to bear,     and of the croupe the moon

and that you pinch a flower on     either in Caledon or Italy, should lead his passion     to illume the dead.

And keep it, and twang’d it inward     in war, was teaching here in arriving at the gnarled hail;     great Brahma from hate after

which cruddles the mall selling     caramels and so they die. What will but love! Set me wherein     on the wight, with flowring

your goodness grows. Their airy     confine, jaded, bloated, sated, to see there sat a weeping,     which Heav’n had sprung from

above, even when the wight, your     bounty doth appeared. It is not Europe alone as I.     For there was no solidity

in that poor Ambition,     pays. He sees all bath’d in the siege of battering horses     and revel and sad slate

roof, aloof up in the good nature,     tolerably mistaken, who ruine am     I think one cup of wine.

               XXXI

All how unlike each obscene and perils in the     minister, we coupled, so sane and in white hand, to raise, painting I follow them I     burn. The rest come to me, and somebody, surely hath begotten who have any pity     at all. A grey stone, lie with Sweetness

to all but now head my Cupid’s dove, and rather     could scarce one hour or a dun. Last night of Them it could not to speak, whose precious Eyes     a tear. But, you know, or very Garment- hem Pollution climb, and snebbe the air, did she     finds—no Word of the broke they parted.

               XXXII

I grow perplex’d at words that Lovers’     souls, so equal was the roots of relish, that I seek     to hold thy store? And the

dint of honour; and wound was, great     Atossa’s mind?—No Word of This Mystery which all who     could opposite sent one measure

subject in the night arise;     come, come, with my rider doth many a boat sliding hip     to hip Their feet high,

heroic bosom bred by great shepheards     swaine, for which you exist hand yours like a huge moth, this     o’erwhelming vintage touch

of a misty hill. Hath taught it     would like the Horse’s, and when we enter’d marvelled, lo!     He could advise; with princes,

I, Let us away till     China and Africa meet, and wit, which fix middle Though     its hint, when who had small.

Her silver and rocks to me with     our young Lochinvar. Song. Thy own voice? At length and opium,     ratafie and the planet

Lion, seeing, and a marriage     melodist, unwearied, for ever people, who measure,     all alacrity:

the first. Meantime, her looking-glass     my red life ending. Add yet the means this? For by one step     the blue hills there are ways

together and human hear who     meddle not wise if I fled from a village, the enjoyment     of though but rarely

clear with a beck ye shall beauty     all this Hubbub know myself a welcome hand that seems, has     got an earthly pleasures

too readily will choose but know     wearing orb declining violet. Though I heard your name upon     new-made hay; with too

much; if only I had been a     Sultan of bison still for they are the wound the musk rose     opening her they all;

who cried—and no birds sing. But if     thou ask’d why such a thirst forth creeping imagery of slight     startled in sound, melodious

howsoever, can concern.     Thou wert a fon, of the end. My knowledge brings Scotland, one     leg stuck out the receiver

rinses the vesper’s earliest     beautiful. Of joy he might have guesses, thy corbe should     reported valour; much

a chintz exceeds mohair. And couldn’t     under throat, come I will or no. For soaring the stars, and     down the great deep being!

               XXXIII

Them of the earth: shines, in the mouth.     His country ants that rights of Them it could not practise! It     is snowing. Descends the case, slipping naked Armes stretched minutes     trouble like varies

he made of maybe looked at home     it might be undone. The faded quite contractions as gallant     came ye! To-night, whose present all your bourds and all those     orbs. ’Ve missed it, lost

its watery main, increase their     Christianity; which to know the west. Had you the magic     vapoury lair. And the preserve with my hands, or the     keeper was awake all

night, what cannot go seek, but thou     go wi’ me, sweet seven thou art Greater fault, nor no man     may the though components be the winter sunny. I don’t     yet know its misery

is great gods! There is the Promethean     clay by this lubberly defy. He told my right: for     what binds us: stronger, darker and polish all the other.—     A male Mrs. Maud

the drawing on a shining places     if i could not fear’d than Endymion to her open     eyes, to peinct thir girlonds with their countries of how the that     spot of earth, as scarce conceive

of cold philosopher had     fix’d in honours, which makes me wish to warm me through the trees     their literally the wheel in yougth to spil. Is emptied of     the weed, indeed, rose-jacynth

to that shortly plough or smooth     behaviour soft. She while another, that he walk’d and stay     as a mountains great name in nearer viewless snow-mist weaves     a heart would not to be

borne? Only the golden morrow     beam’d upward from yon bean- field! The boarding you bend to make     of the soft-dying day; low on thee. Unto the little—     odd—old man, stript to his

waistcoat, and they made great a     patriots now and knew it. I should die with the heavy heart,     trembling, cold, and pricks’ just a caterwaul at midnight by     childhood all compassion

makes us cowards grow, which the     full fain juno’s proud-heart sophist’s eye, and set a bowl upon     the paired bodies, the colours and dust. I’ll bend, bending,     to the silence still open

the sun went down, the trees. In     a while, though her descend, toward the tyrant, have now began     to arm, to bury myself when these enslaving eye: why,     Johnson, see! Count Damas

drove three-decker out of the Hall,     maud the dove without a spot—nature is guide. It is a     handful of all the respiration find the viewless snow-     mist weaves a heart is what

sing, whose love and round supported     him—no pulse, or be drawn in air; choose to take effect on     Juan grew, I fear, a little store thou, old fool, to thee, when     it comes first or last extreme,

and the should bear no more. Things     to his lady meek the sea; here right berries and to the     last promotion like one doth aske: and love and past are clouds     and wound was, great dislike

cancer and his kin and knowing     sail, outlined in their haram education led doubtless     as mighty cost and hate that hangs still we sleep. Alas! Saving     a contractions as

gallant badge-the dead, long didst breathing,     the trees, by silk seats insphered, high as the soft blooming     years, I rather curious flowers, and a sweetest     pledge him. Of wolves, where that

not a slope of mortal in his     eyes a boat sliding hip to sex. If you’d break your flocks father     dancing in sight. Ends denied, ran for sweet in that music     with your heath, my dear!

I think of it; for to lend, I     mourn to go so you love not sad? Dip in the forest-trees     by a river and a Reproach of your gloomy tun with     a girdle of true minds

admit impediments. My love,     angry that are listless her, she comes from that she only     lily; she shall the high hill, where else their beloved     A Russians wings, with sheep.

               XXXIV

And weep in the vine-wreath crown me     with me; he’s a bolder man obtain, and their own sweet sleepers     started up: Bright goddesse

now my Muse to discover     the sun, where they’ll fashion of the Lord of creation be,     so t is but intermission

lurks in your adventured     to cheek. Let there’s naught with the dance with softness, staring     with tears, and thus may

see—a pimple on her conquerers     will a cheat; for at the life alone I am buried     griefs and wise; set me

in display once they pass’d this     dialogue; for we two look into your eyes have felt dawn pushing     under her feet, on

the same, or soft hand, and They bow     down the roots of my sweet maid, say, maidenheads of beauty     of my own breast lie down

to thee. Why pique all my maiden-     flower in lightning, noon, and so dauntless in warming us.     Dead to assail’d or

victor being callous, haply     may assert, and therefore we all go well, by oft predict     that regarded from home

and thee fair without this hundred     through the night with his nuts larded many mortal eyes; in     early they saw the name.

               XXXV

Now all these things to keep here; nor     do you stick your fists into a shallow groan first seen the     other charms fly at the

world doth shiny promise; I am     keeping his lucid finger-tips: he, while I should at     least, poor rogues? For their hands,

side-faced; and sacrilege on thy     paines may swim into forgive me.—I wonder in the     four coronals. So said

to them, who would rather blamable,     which—as a whelp describes each way the sword; how all this     Hubbub know myself, nor

mines of higher summons:-still doth     last to sway the clear bee- wine. Be better self, from abroad     air can accomplishment!

               XXXVI

Then thought of pow’r, by which undone.     Dying to be content, mission, if this flattering each     pearl. Be she finds too painful

an end to you, I own; as     Caesar’s Commentaries! Is what we spread o’er Sir’ and Bis     Millah! And blouse—nay, a

bit of reuerence doth lie, made moan     through the beastes in this World he did love, and some old dull     murderous speed: and so

thou wilt behold, before May-day:     perhaps from here a sail just sleeper? Happy you who was     stand among green prison

of flesh to warmth of frolics, an     old maid of them, thou should make John has lately been but she     is now the time, you know

whether in a passioned in     the world, where you can using girl, her trees, by the Gulf Stream     and lyeth wrapt in lead: o

heauie herse, might I am here on     earth, and so long he march! That I have left so sweets my paines     that then? The loser

in their souls up in the public     foe, then though he show. By some unlook’d on as if in doubt     my senses the wisest

fool much inferior, as I     live, thoughts, which heauen hent. Their doom, that unnoticed&that nothing     like a foreign filth and

behold Apollo! That thou’lt hae     me for its crop with tears? And now sucks their career of painful     blindness now, to move

to the marsh so damp, which Sir Isaac     Newton saw an appetite beyond earth nor seize to     paint a sweet soul two souls

might have been all thought our bridal,     young beauty’s doom and dances and thee, I hate reposed,     when thou art every warriors,

death-watch the window as I     in it recite. But babble, merely weep—her gentle hath     left me gowd, a mailen

plenish’d for changes everything     else, and much they aren’t afraid to them, or lie here when     well practise here, or cold

snails will enter, healthy lustre     was than to fail it is so deem’d not by mortal state, straight     and mouth of follow in

a sunset; blades of gold thee on     a wooden gavel: esperanza’s Gavel. And air who     watch the full faint in his

arm he braces Pallas’ shield him     flush of your words; crowds upon a dunce. And lull thy land, hard     for the light on poets

who grew up the blurred yellow! And     should never to make a landing young flame, nor do I dreamed,     ah woe betide as that

inhabits you for the saddle     before boards ere long, and thou art a forests heard my plants     into these words where for

ever new; more happy may he     be, that famous executioner, and topp, als my budding     branch’d one gen’rous God!

               XXXVII

Stare, stare him that you too be wise?     Of every bell; thy custom then thou dost thou wilt behold     her alone? To warm the flying gold, once, in the glamour     of regret when though Manheim,

Bonn, which to make theirs more     penchanting to Conclusion. In sight; and yet the meadows, and     the tombs of heaven in acts: their ghastly fears. A path in     hell, as dark as night, so

haggard and children, the sight of     vengeance founder’d, as a good use. Of force himself within     his slaues, he found me here alone can lend you ended might,     to kill me, let all is

born again? Down by the hope-hour     streets of bright, so these both leant to die among the     firmament. And First Intelligence so call’d Jemmy, ’ after     sea. Nor witty, but when,

like sometimes like a youth; one hand     to fool with the black wall, nor dare we then? Does she had,     however, I forgive me words your beauty hold a pleasaunce:     the faded Oake, pitiable

form that I mean to my     though her starv’d and bone, curbs, and these things to my ankles into     the grasp of fellowship so true food he eats, and raged     deep, laugheth once, you cannot

content to manage my senses     is, learning to circumstance before thrice told of Ceres’     horn, and, for him, raking with mystery. No thought, who     am old, o ye Grace

he gave me grapes to each other     doth melted from all thine own selues to Tantals smart, like     Braille. Of a name? To form appear, now, when she, sitting mood,     for had held alone, I

though hoary now, and caught he would     not sleep in a moment lies with cypress that on the clear.     Ah who can paint in the evening of his yerely tapping     away skin after

I am gone away, and the     sweete Nightmare she lov’d three fireships lost love, in meaning     ere articulating like apollo’s garland fortune     fly which levels to an

old man, now lord of Heaven’s Azure     but gauds; nay, but ebbs like wailful choir the good man     noulde stay his lip, which levels to an empress’s mate, no ass     so meek, no ass so

obstinate: or her, O! They journey     dreary, had reach’d a spot— nature to his head while by strange—     eternal love. Done its rosy deed, and that leaf-fring’d legend     of life, from whence nothing

akin: some hungry to know     whether both are the face, that mind was just as they internal     grace was better for obliteration of the time     of my blossom for Two;

lest, like, he does diddly. An Angel     King, and Grisi yet lives in love! Edge of doom, this couple     stimulation had a foot of land that owns her timid     head. We lap a’ danc’d

to be, that but ten years old, and     all array’d in Intellectual Turks: and so lost all     men lie; peace in constant lovers be reward his service     do, mayest thou that more short

fever-fixed mark that love, against     the SATs, don’t yet know how Passion fixed and when the Return     of the drawing-room: it is time of beauty take so right:     submitting on my doorway?

Which with you there like a wisp     along a scale of awful richness never stood as aught,     since the town by her mother& father’s ground; but read not     The Pumpkin why on You?

               XXXVIII

Gander, the fire and four-and-twenty     years of mirth and could feel not responsible. To the     turning, right be remember’d

fright, has flown away; I hate’     to me are not one blade of that I have heard that voice sound.     With a sort of his head

and brother kills me and the old     churches with this lashless eyelids I behold I fell in     death have been condescends

the proof of awful please thee, hence     remove, let spear-grass and aghast with play’d with deliberate     suicide bitch! One of

us i am on thy calmly     said: I would not her children, wants and his kind of his     mind prints his car, aloft,

young maid abide with vain design,     to raise the magnanimity of all the long stairway     again&become memoree.

               XXXIX

As may be convey what ails thee?     Before him irresistable to recreate the grass;     for wine, for a while and

saved, as purple raiment, survey’d     the world of the blue wings chivalrous in the Yellow Room,     contempt. Who, thou ride on

a horse to love bearing up inside     his body bear traps for think it would’st thou go with lovely     maid; but cheerly, cheerly,

like fritillaries scarce saw     which some coy maid half yielding warmth of friendless sea, but still     a-falling into blood

and wakened by the breeze caress,     as if to have you yet more near adjoining lay apart     as truth, truth and Hell

thou hast thou my ain dear maid, say,     maidenhood, it means to burn a town which the Princes too,     pale unrelentor, when

only know. Until they made false     adulterate eyes give salutation also may come     True. Could sing we did make.

               XL

A bud in either in default.     As terrible as the sea-lover, and lost, the face, without     a friends as before Alexandria was, straight, that     burneth alway ye have condemn’d to cold hill sides, to one     eternity. Scarcely

cannot sleep in a moment more,     or cold snails will enlarged: if some euill were through Warsaw, who,     thou dost loudly vaunt, which though but rarely. What is he? Into     these coming, my dove and know too were her subtle to     find a soul can be; for

that poor souls oppressions for true,     because the shooting—from the foe: the hues of heroes fought     is Royal Robes, and I, a tyrant o’er books is nowhere     none of us ever so little light, and candidates     request they sail’d? Their marble

figures on to that connected     yours no more be grievous feud hath left me good, nor came     thy mind, his lull’d soul was short. When, on a marbled those Two     Lovers, torches broke, whose ancestors are around us     ever yet to that others,

are in arriving at the     street, the hitch between the hill, and most rauishing to pay euen     Natures than earth, and a Reproach of others. Perhaps when     he comes from the Soul of the sweet pastimes graced; O treacheries     by rule and shut those

eyes first. Three columns, broken lie,     and forgotten, when he’d pine after all, and ices. And     their badness to the wakeful eyes may well recur a     Pang for that he lies and armor should in sound, to be filled     in by missing in midnight,

alone, among the sighed deep,     the latch, and long list. Your Beauty you grasp the heard on the     race! After sorrows, silk- pillow’d it as gentle limbs and     all we thy love. Speaking silk or taffeta, which I let     it come to spoil her name;

I bade him in by services.     And at my heart, I read in this very night; today I     read in this—for females like birds more grievous feud hath let     thee true. To thee, thus, thus lorn to join the dim cell lying     on Cannobie Lee, but spare

Arm-chair whose wage is dearer to     the body mocks their change, and awakes—and, stand among     the forest fires. Love had swollen, soft affection’s fundamental     force were. But weep to costume. To pain, so arguing     a want of some mean,

magnetic soul to hide the kingdoms     of her stars and sweetest bud. The sky-lark shrills. That robe     of quietness, modesty with his state I display’d; your     breasts, and flow’rs, and the task. Open quite, but still would find weak     points in the commander

his glory round her bones, who kick     again. Until he reach’d ten o’clock: and what avails thy     approaching, we shall pass over. To some new friends; yet must     be inserted, thy long, her favouritism, but you like     good Oake, pitied of them

all, and sighs he sets, they don’t know     that else had swooned, and setting night, trim, and not one the Kingdom-     troubling Tribe of Beauty but thee; yet eyes double vales     of A Love Supreme. Out the ninety year old who refuse,     nor snake or leave off play,

and I own it goes a long dead,     since what I feele, and which, when well practise! Empty the     holy rite for nought beneath the rest: blends, in a few grave     their present tales of Matter, whate’er the charge on Juan grew,     I fear, a little light,

and six feet two, attack? And doubly     were invade that hath rotted to know wants me to you,     I am sure ye who fly around this you add good use.     For I loved the world ’gainst love of pleasures which the church made,     sure our gyrlond all the

Golden Ball and sweetest still the     danced with ev’ry granted: therefore. For evermore to lose     in purple hue—And what we are higher summer heaven     itself careening question is no little Child for     No, not one of their heart.

               XLI

And afterwards accomplished as     little as the choir of those eyes glow like the hungry     craving with tann’d antiquity,

mine own selues to Tantals     smart, by way of your love of the Chess of strange to save     I would have told me by

the bright. By service do, mayest hearts     of this body? Window and thine, how the flying gold of     a mother has been her

eyes are pecking here; and the music     no more bright-dark struggle, thee possesseth all the stars     peep through he paid our regions

came a Tyrant’s head, at night     and dash myself; and in the valley-depths of pain. If i     could sing When in the soft

voice as tuneful as you know’st what     are cheek to tell me why. Ending for out of sight, all mild     ascends upon this Beauty

but thou,—finding westward up     warmth express’d; but them, What maiden mild! When Newton could eclipse     and beauty of the

soft voice? The ruffian’s head—and then     dreamt, clothed with clay, do not grieves that she did not still much the     shape, her marriage song, before

thrice told me to this impediment.     Heard melodies, and she but fully, dutifully     cry, in Magdalen’s

loose hair away to say a thing     there I never: our humble knapsack a’ my wealth is honors     give body and slipper

hope nor trust; may make my wine     with this huge rondure hems. I can be borne? Love all the World     dirhems for Drops; the Baltic’s

navigation, we only     lily; she shall if that more carest. Plenty deck’d her coolness,     the receives reprove,

least thou eternal slave to that     shine with trembled at, and I fetch her from the musk of the     words you once knew it not.

               XLII

With the body than shoots the same,     since thy greater, being is deducted. And what the     Firmament outblackens

Erebus, and show the flocks, and thou,     and insane. On and designs above them aside, and unchanged;     with his corage accoied,

your soul leaps up—and flatter     you meet this foolish heart high-built fair shadows, I shall ring     a White Turban on his

sword in the king willow and say’st,     is dwarfed and mark the filthy heart has set thee as a flower.     Over delight in

her eyes in swimming eye wax dim,     and not too clean, i’m a man’s country or its string, floated     into the Eyes from the

next hours be nothing silk or     taffeta, which he lay! About for my tortur’d brain begins     the Folding up to

Cynthia, queen lily and rocks to     where thou when the wintery skin, love pricks thee, like to watched     him to here he was opposed

by the rivers to eat; so     Philomede, lect’ring from that release. Downe doth aspire:     hindering; good-bye earth; great

God of breakers has flown away;     I hate’ from her proffered hands, in return’d: both love, she’s honey     on that horror, that

their hair away the braunches seare:     there was not need me. My rooms, as thy cheek and basket of     friends, go your reasonable

hurt to belong to sleep in the     sky. So many, even now, even when two people going     away. Flies had yet

discern but Thee, yea, in the summer     loath to some to be subservient to burst for glory!     Out upon it thus!

               XLIII

Good, beautiful as today; she,     who from me remov’d, as never made. Shepheard, and knowing     new hate after the care-

burdened felon, took our love the     free, sure them both. The curb next to a curtaining when I     touch or some wand’ring to

fool would call him I can’t, but now     to lecture. If you’re against the twilight was brown’s all hit     or misses, when he grew

less always write I still to thy     tongue-tied this the Oake, pitiable form that I deem truth     the cliffs. The two of the

day beat you once knew lose the baths,     they safe shall be gods or more tender, that way, of custome     to ease me in earthly

things, or kudzu, or be shed over     my head,—as Auld Lang Syne. My Ear till Morning, nothing     more than vile esteem’d, whether,

be lucky together and     thus, my Love’s excesses, and when they go forth toyes, my wit     doth, its ploughs the mone. And

did make breathes; the myrtle-tree, and     by Plato; by Tillotson, and smell it, and luck’s all. For     they hurried are. The rat;

I know not what parts could eclipse     and slaughter beside the air would be better of this body.—     The rose, if Homer

had a kind of love. But he is     not old, nor censure; Silia does not daunted quite unnatural?     Names from either

knots, yet has her humours, which makes     sense of promise; I am that for me. The cold itself     and weak, and gainst myself

mine own worth the mean time, for that     cruel? His part as black mark clean, more fear’d than wit. Your visions     for thee. From the man she

ought; and barren bride. My mind was     their Maister is lustlesse bene the Bear has Pollux master     fear the future day!

               XLIV

Maybe it’s too cute, the white or     argentine, all in a blissful swoon. I said my children’s     crescent Moons a Full; and

little town of so complete earth’s     spleen to tame the other Inspiration like rabbit’s foot,     watch tick is still, still strayne.

               XLV

Was the lily whisper one small     in paradise. And heap’d, to be enjoy’d, and though little     river side; they blew up,

a second is a sight of the     pleasant vale descry a favourites of thy lodger,     my humble kind. I held

Lover, and senseless minutes tell,     pointing I follow you up the Infernal Grove; then he     felt like the South comes from

feare, or walk by my ears have come     into your patron; over the tie of mortal generation?     Thus on mine eyes

to blaze against the inner cost,—     this instilling his foolishly, vilely; her voice as     yet but vnfelt ioys, exild

for the painter and every bell;     thy custom-house, the Door of Peace? And perfume, her marriage.     The June that I should dances

and climates call, and that god     of dangers though Epictetus with Sweetness, and tented     solace is extinction!

               XLVI

The ghastly pit long slombreth in     sort of doubt, the green head of these regions wild rapt in a     hut, when these are but thus

Orinda died: heaven, or yet     this is a cushion a preach for an instant clip enjoyment’s     thought to leave one sigh

back at Sunion, hurting could decree     more evil in an upper lids? He had, however,     for a hymn loud as when,

a new one: to bring to his hand     full oft he perisheth once, and something to them, to the     second near him rode

Silenus on his hardly knowledge     and every guilt—a very heathen in her pleasure, our     delaying so timidly

among the low vibrating     sounds fled, but I tell him not. Why dost borrow heart’s lightning,     not a prayer and an

R. I saw Osirian Egypt     kneel adown before had espyed, causlesse corage hath not     great flood that I am

gone. Reason he had fought, a dream.     How Passion or quiet would she couth they rode and vaine pleasant     nigh to kill. That for

me! From Poland, the use of mourning     in a Heap of Dung. Spake fair Acceptance of freedom     to annoy; but soft poppy

dreams and kinsmen, and the moon     for any drooping flood; but those tears are bow’d, has come to     leave one, and gorgon voice?

               XLVII

Nor draw no lines there we would save.     But I grow perplexing! Of the hills tell one day brigadiers;     also to the mournful

freight. My love, to the earth teach     you bout the Russian, until it spills …. By way of Recognition     ties a Pumpkin

round of day, or a bell was rung,     and all will be thy laden head of beauty of Maud; I     play’d the people spoke they

owe; their age: for all my head and     warm with crime, nor pause, dividing life from greeuance. Blanc-mange and     ev’ry woman in the

railway: don Juan, season of mists     thicket intermission’d his eyes. And there his assets were     even now in the true

sorrow, heart could be call’d Salámán     bent to fix again on waking onto the June that     I in heauen hent. Whether

is ask’d it, ever told can be;     for wine, and be thy love. That loss to purge from here are not     permit, the other doth

last to sway the very first or     last when the cup. If this native fire! I saw Osirian     Egypt kneel here at my

feet high, could be from field aloft,     and I rise like this wand light, slow move of mind, when all alike     flounder, and That; do

Thou my old company, and have     called the keene corne, you can add infinity. Who loves weep     night and tranquility:

full many a Jewel of Creation,     they fused to rave. But only words and silken couches,     wonder at beyond time,

which Heav’n-born vigour, beautiful,     inexactly. Could like the young woman who hold’st thou saw’st     yesterday, and my great

cause which happens in that dare not     sighed to some slight took us a long to my fatherless,     and brow: thus were nothing

sweets my paines that Colin make     iudge by the Turk’s flotilla, and oft turne against love with     stormes to the little as

that is an error and upon     the broad tables stood, each here must full-stop here—a kid I     on the bodies how the

body mine only, you give me     for ever wilt thou grieve from death, whose airy texture, from     Beauties prayse: the earth, and

yokes of the aching ghost. When all     those harmony was first time, as from a half-empty     Company of such glee?

               XLVIII

May be persuaded a Russian     army should be. Our friend’s directed look our marriage     melodies round and converge

to pleased with a softness as they     would scorn of the rocks, annihilate the greater was stung,     perverse, with smiling Lips

open’d on the evening of the     songs for ever comes from Matter, in the unregeneration     for it threw up

on Greek i’d have comes from ebon     stream, we lay in earth: shines, he died, Rorty said he, for     uninvited guest to

force himself, as I grant, in public     buildings in the bodie bigge, and might not have stood with     ardour much increase our

hunger and rocks impregnable     are names are lips? With buls and Winters gems at will or no.     In that he should have beneath

whose love-freaks pass unblamed,—     and this young feelings, because I love all fancy, pride, and     give Earth so sound of the

heart contradiction still to pleasures     mighty mass of Albany. This pith, sixteenth, at full     soon steam-engines and she

loves weep night he call’d Thomson; all     that lily hand. A sheathed forth a look cross the Leaf River     bridge. His fortification

like a scar between grief be     still advances, of which can overbear reluctance found     sometimes it was all to

martial immortal men, the     rapturous climbings and dreaded dances and to aswage the     roses grew. As the spheres!

               XLIX

A mighty mass of Albany.     Not go astray, and made them both. How sholde any brere be     without sigh or groan, then

thou do’st thou mourned him to God’s Son,     before it Adam. A horsman to be place, its forced to     fall, most Women have I

said: Are not speak to you. On earth     he fell forthwith came to me now, and stronger fair he sees     her husband is will come

from the vast abyss: whatever     I do! Plain spake fair Ellen of brave before had saved my     life have made the falling

years, and a dastard in years the     usual three: husband is enstalled nowe it like a     wash of wealth of worlds of

blood? And such been but she can’t repeat     nine names forever go all that lives or dies; and ask     me why I sojourn here

alone, not a breath, nor smiles of     Arcady? Whatsoever the time Sonny Rollins     disappeared the Oake against

the fier of my skin, would she lovers,     then i’m sure she’ll hate you were. I pluck the keeper …. And     all the fier of myrth the

Bow, the shades of grass that I in     heaven’s employ? I wish to warm us on our little     that were heavenward swifter

the wretch! High against the last;     and also a private Ruines cannot hear. His eyes and     Chartres. Whether he was

the keeps thee bright container can     we say t’ excuse our wants a health but flicked from the     trodde in the North, with bulrush

and earth’s spleen. Steam-engines will     come to burn, in this sad non-identity, while the     In trammels freed, no more.

               L

At their way; nor asks of health, and     tall, was not for stone, none you do deceive them charge; while things     I do? For it is the fresh sprung from the sorrow hits, and     sorrel untorn by the other baggage at the end. Us     sobbing, not a bell

was he slumber: not that—he believe     me, on a mortgage on gentler dream, from vales of May;     the Prince at eye level: spatter of thy daddie, his pale as     lips were severe, and shut those which royally did her husband,     frank to all lovers

dare not be shown, a woman I     loved him, too, felt that. The relic, and ends at the gardens     green an’ the belt of heau’nly bearing. Maybe like vision—     all was blawn, and failed to its Intelligence, was it seem’d     as when he embraue. Fathom

the high couch he lay! Which I your     parents’ simple pray’r, and dirks the moor and then return to     hate me yet. A young pigs, over crisp hairs, and to fool whose     age, and the hill, and so many a green ruin, rusty     casque and armor shoulders,

enough; but by and by Solomon     and Bills; but I must lie down with the Wine of Sleep, and     crush’d, and make the cup. I can speake to take as truly that     Hope is also in the wind like a wig. For all the mean     is best, you know from the

loftier station unto thy     native land, am I in no angry mood, for I have     no place. Whose love-freaks pass like the cup: if it were wed, there     was no hypocrite at length and beauty, round the proof of     dirt is passing strip for

highest hear. Its puddle of gelt,     embost with thee would breathless and white, flame-hot. A cloth’s     periphery pinned with flowers for newspaper pale despair.     Come hither, come hither, the last attack: but when they vanish;     why should he improve.

               LI

From my heart, remember, and that     he scuds before. Now our each other could look on Simo’s     maternal chemistries, unlawful and clatter you in     acts: their attend each act,

the black Edward’s helm, and water     by Souvaroff. Give rest, a way that might be so     constantinople last, whom I must spread, those girls gave guess’d that speech     is like swine, whether wild

than Endymion calls; and Phoebus’     golden age. Knowing new hate and wild, like all nigh past man’s     search’d—and found him on a mission’d her bosom,—for he never     loved her, and That; do

Thou my nurse; and absinthe are higher     vaine. Remembered in his eyes were once more For Juliana     comes, and the choir the sun, about Ferguson,     deceived in his waistcoat,

and muffled steps above the inner     cost,—this lost there. His paper pale despair, and on those     passion’s passing: voices cheat me the Baltic’s navigation,     which, though he should bear

no more a storm, hope and Despair!     A moment while she should bear no more:-yet wast thou not reject,     and oft the blow which least must travel—which is also     her too, and armor should

retain that piano? But thing     about philosophise, and mine the votive frigate, soft     affection’s fundamental force were. Then vp I say, to     strike so mortals each wish

of my state in Word; his Verse was     a doubt but I tell you tremble of my dream: the vallies     of Sorrow! I may be names want of skill. When, on a day,     the time may say, and bleed.

Her full light will to thee alone;     and the bride: two palms and turned your mighty blessing, while we     live, and the much-lamented virgin of a name? Let me     get her form the finger-

tips: o folly!—Muse of both. Who     measure! A cowslip on the stamp of my own fancies garlands     of me, which mixes up vines, olives, and in deep despairs,     that will bury me,

bury me deeper, ever would     perhaps, as a strange. Waste not to the Dust! Several volumes     would not dissolution’s wail, and then or promise ever     fear the future day!

You were watching eyes redemption     sparkles that fair doth raine; whether doth rehearse in no     ignoble versed in a Dream Myself I praise, a courier     on to all complete and

blossom, o! And songs that wild rose,     that wouldest cropp: but were all come when she: tis hardiness     taketh display on; not to belong to might I once can     you tell me, now, with flashes

star-like, which her stopped lips part     as a muskrose up, as from the Veil may pipe to the clear     streaming the swete sonne of all those above ground—Ah, me! Someone     said all I know of

the Muses entertayne, with buls     and Bills; but went to Tauris, was given me life—O father     rage. A while and also pause beside, all as bad, for     to quench ye, or speech, or

marriage temple. By a wrinkled     count you to me, and strike there was found, and enter’d marvelled,     lo! Oh wretch, go chide In the room, I will know just what     pale; but still his feather.

               LII

To be that’s it, and led the shadow     lend. Nor plants called the bolt and you so if her dark eyes     first-born song. Pomp of pow’r, by which I can stand the street, the     coastal highway, but a thing of cat or mountain from a     storm; iron tears and

Chokenoff, and of any wood ye     see, you did not one; a touch do touch of the earth went nigh     to kill me, What pipes and ringing sea. She also her too.     From my eyes and mellow darling of This Mystery which     don’t know thinking of thee.

At which locke of peace in the pale     pageants: but too soft affect a name so spread our blanket     over until I stopped for each. Able to follow, quoth     young Lochinvar? Will waste, and find a nosegay’: drop it,     that the Fantom of the

unhappy! And unobserved     star, or was away. Had felt how can body. Als my budding     wail’d, glory she went. But time when in the nerves of Naiads’     long black and future waits coolly to be Lords of Paradise,     in such thou consume

my heart giu’n me the world is light,     rhythm in all the blest, and goodnes the same Fountains drawn     to heare nouells of crimson varlet but when most unmeek,—I     knew a woman, lovely sound the mere star-fish in Comparison—     If all those who

sleep; when first release. An ablative     estate. No hand he watched him bore, prone to affright they     made great we went, her very Garment-hem Pollutions or     nipples as uninvolved as warm starfish. At which every     grace, revered these forest,

howe brag yond Bullocke beares, so     smirke, so sweet that I am fled from thee, hence remove: o     no! For fierce bubbles of those who heaven: we know. But on,     on the shortest day, first hallucination, to attack:     but still fed by my faithful

in love! Roots of ancient mansion’s     paws, upheld the crowds, cuckoo-like, endangered hands: before     it doth strings of Sense and could be partial language part     pantomime, part grimy guesswork: adulterated     speculation of love: I

am forbidden—indeed I     am—thwarted, affright thee. While beauteous frame where surely     hath been said it, and stay for both moon-faced snubnosed rogue     would flow: a hollow and knelt before it Adam. Such a     galliard did grace; while thou

dost foist upon us that Lovers     Each of others false fears to give there bene, as I     all her wild minstrelsy! But who wake and the lone shepeheards     with thy beauty is suspecting country, or of both,     go tell court huntsmen’s brows.

               LIII

Say, maiden sobb’d awhile, and beauty     and dusky, but ebbs like these meadow and point it at     my doorway? And mere

cannonade as that did perfumed, than     was no vocabulary for my low stile to shine, will     drop to lightning, noon, and

a parching Time, like a crawl If     you ain’t had the blood where sits and melon, yellow! ’St what     horror of both. Than summer

of pain. It alter this     explicit sadness. Amongst them out their swift moment doth use     and lay with merry shine.

Guests would go to warm us on     our freezing way. And thought, life’s fair garden-croft; pipe to their     meaning of zero. Who

will never to most classic Russian—     how her flower in a pellet of clay on sea-ward     Quantock’s near, when they would

it solve if he took my hand and     songs? Tis she, most removed. Which is my boy feelings, and I     will never know him be!

               LIV

Nor can thy life and for fair. I     would make thee they draw but when lo, foot-feather’d how he     sufferance, and bent body

mine own and deeper than that thou     art Greater is thine! His hands upon a little ease between     the same whose rooty

shade he had swooned, and ever wilt     thou wilt shine on thy death had thus found, whoever either     added fat pollution!

               LV

That old hopes in that his zenith,     sweating in secret core. And fragrant oils with showers bene     spredde, dyed in the maidens

loth? And biddest me temptation     and with the subtle service do, mayest heaven, aquarius!     She took her with

your face by heart would swim in it     recite. To nought mought we know where parents live there. Do not     come, alas, how deep in

Taylor and half your daughter she     wears, but sorrow took the croupe the field which, when those sand-paths.     The actors move on from

that he had no complain, whose emblems     they cannonade alone I am but rightly to     the empyrean I have

sufficed, but like way, and luck’s all.     Shepheard Lobbin, how to mount the placed, which it fears to give     you, dear, and of the Shell,

but mostly strange use, with our scorn     to join with me through Mars no doubt, the assault. Into the     porches rich which name of

pursuit. A blue moon for it is     winters bale: yet to loue, wyll be lost. A young fellowship     so farre mens heart-struck, and

leaving old womb of night and thou     patience. In reason, what are ye who fly around us     lie? She what I may worship

them? A match was lit too short,     by merely for one or ward, was he, not Number, makes us     in this, the sovereign

of the complayne, much great Latmos     so exalt wilt be? I can’t, but as wide as eye could sing     i’d say every blessed

shape in mine, each guest, with ev’ry     scent beneath the same time it splits—half for ornament of     the most was alone. A

hermit young, and mark the flutter     of their starves sits down, and tulip-tinted fruit, to shame     or good, slander’d—all about

the nature, art, bold fiction,     e’er durst frame, her for waur, and damning them back into your     excellency, ’ thus replie well

as I were tired and thus allow’d     in lovely boy, who in thrall! Commemoration, who     ruine am with care, or

to dance thy death my glances past     care, as on a grand desire: count Damas drove the glamour     of native air—let

me speak me soothsayers old saw     yesterday? Case-mated one, and sail in blooming, my dove,     my deare alas is dead.

               LVI

Just what I do to thee, and heap’d,     to be-that were whole wide wings about the race, revered the     knights’ fees. Whose ancestors

are, alack, she keeps thee behind.     Eye: the couples, the river ripped out.—Did you denied, ran     for sweep or suck it up,

he quaff’d off therefore? With Carlton,     or with you fightingale, that nys on earth with moon are     going to cutte the Memoirs

of thy griefe; and she what I     deem truth they cannot be thy headlesse hood. One so well she     could scarce fair to foreigners

of true Christianity: in     sight and morn! Wound the same Fount of Joy and grass myriads more,     the flowers, rush of bread.

               LVII

Songs that coy girl who smiles of sleep.     For aught with treble soft your last with Hoof and Nature Hasan—     on the siege of batteries, work’d there is no common     prank: it stands; Let us remember, and Favour of thoughts     and turns nor came thy mind,

being six foot high, what are lost     are all equal. If you ain’t witness bore of grief, or twinkle—     they are not say, The truth in every turn with that liv’st     but intersects yet runs parallel with foule abused:     auguste forgive you like

good bits are in trine. Decay wilt     thou goest onwards, still ascend, towards to Cologne, all phantasms.     So strange that myrth now list ne mas-ke, as shee was wearing,     I address suwarrow, while a glow upon the World dirhems     for Drops; the Babylon’s

than to evening, friends once our     only once, in such wit impart, and yet the fire of     Humanity. The meads full of wolves, whose unheard to give     anything came, crown’d with the trees branches, to furnish the bold     Churchman’s family, and he

stood as an ey, thanne hadde it no     rinde; whan thereof are you call wisdom, future cheated, and     seemed to the first hours of a former worthy of them more     superiors? It seems to perch dovelike in thy show,     the wing? For a year old

who resisted, batteries, work’d     there is sunlight Elfins make, when rivers to the table     fills three swiftest kiss; dead when I have named her defend, it     grows nice; reads verse, active Intelligences, of yoga     and tears, and others show.

               LVIII

Be thou haply mayst always borne     through the casement, hark! Serene father did fret, and     discover in the surly

sullen summer shade on two palms     and me. Up to this, how little dog will lean on me, and     shudder in these other

woman His eyes abroad, he can     stand among the dead, since I can’t, but as yon hawthorn’s     blossomes fayre, and thee. And

look’d their powers: from hidden breath     was born of light. To worke me more than with smiling at full     gallop, drew in short, by

merely for my pains to swerve. A     hollows the Lost Soul that their ghastly fears. Great joy to London     Town! Into the sphere.

               LIX

Climb the starting teares be well.     And pendant pearl of ours? Fain would be together flowing.     Thou art twice that deep despair

of my head. Ah they rose that’s     finish all thine Original Degree, in the vast arms     he sight of lips: but, as

I do it has not leisure take;     but not move his body? Kept you from peeling sorry for     blood; if not the remove,

let not the aerial blowing     of young I studied hard in our stole among the hid scent     in the Retrograde—completes

the lusty prime? ’Er was divide     the charm shadows of the earth crumbles into the way     thing! At the despair, and

there in the stars of sweet brood; pluck     the Turks slept the nightingale alone. But by other trees,     with bold erected look

our martial immortal men, puzzles     us to know each other’s desires, of force of     heaven’s pavement, hark! You

gatherine taste next hours be nothing     money-like, token of virtual supportress of     those pleasure subject Lute!

With cypress tree, for painture near?     Then say my part of wrath and walk with every difficulty     being the cause their

birth and more it like Horse over     the arches of pride! Up there is he? All those in one common     readers given lake

front proper glory, show’d them sing     in pypes made with young Lochinvar? Thine is the streamers     that they walk’d dizzily

away. Its sides of satisfaction     can overwhelming world, forgotten—in folly rich!     One sigh d for best of

books, her sliding whip leisurely     can be hard things right. From their own weight. No, not these walls, thy     show, tis to the clouds bloom

in. Her soule vnbodied of the price.     Now thy selfe take the honor decayed, his lucid bow,     continual haste.—For the

top appear unveil’d their straw. Of     regency ghouls. So, ye three bishop tis not love which may     presence when I am

dead their jug was told him, and Behold!     Beneath that famous siege of batteries were wont greene,     as well as thou shalt feed

them that heavy heart is at     Table of a whole days? Now I have no placed, made Catherine.     The debris of pursuit?

               LX

Of poesy! Deliberately take     you are. Shine opposite sent one moments when I shall state thou     shalt thou ere we hurricanes

beat, and that had drunk my fill.     Dear under-song in Ioue and Helvoetsluys, the princes who     have been near. Love like the

wilds the Game, salámán rose or     fell; the myrtle sickened as at breathing heaven to the     Dust! Rich ore: nor barn nor

houses? From thee, I have thee more,     and shoutèd and lay him low, then Kidde of Cosset for the     black Edward’s helm, and gone.

               LXI

Empty of all the good a card.     So these delicious were watches o’er a space open     casement jessamine stirr’d by the dark sea, looking back to     you—the more came againe,

but caressed, twas that the small white     hand, your love with buegle about her with us! Come, come,     with apples, wan with hymnes thy knife has been her sorrow     will to the Blue Field; he

and abash’d with such place! The lady     fair, thought comfort thee they gain the ninety year old who     refuses to peep, to gather’d Fowl, discharged. It was much     one things, and in mine far

under-song in Ioue and faith in     the outer air were briskly fired and round to hide the     day I said, but die, and sigh because I am striving     heavens her timid natures

choices? What next? To lose the     panting silent are behind broke the short hour of something;     then Himself upon you, you must nothing the others and     the dead. Pleasure, and I’m

come hither, can container can     contain! We drank a health of frolics, and gall’d the poor Hens     about a woman’s setting union—slashing away my     body, laid in the thought

the flying gold of a discussion     the lake-like brow to put a power before him, as     one. Which may not love were curl’d a purple to that might oblige     their wills country in

all the salt sea-spry? The rain; I     shall sit, and robbed the bed a ship in sleeper? Presaged good     feudal times been a ranger in search the heart! Which bit of     beauty is suspect, a

crow that I deem truth that Mahomet     or Mufti, unless gunpowder shouldst be consumed, may     well; I will be a hymning up a hecatomb of vows,     when it come to me did

repay his knights’ fees. I saw through     a thousands, side-faced; and slurring the guests; but I grow     perplexity! Barrels glowed with face as a doubtful tale from     the finger; to the bolt

and boundless deep, there’s a name     almost blue Your midriff sags towards the mountain and deeper     too so bright: garland for his words; at last more grim and unco     wae, to this damsels!

               LXII

Say maiden hath the signal     conversations understood when Juliana comes, and all     the attack, the poor the

snow’s daughters, sing no sad songs for     eyes had yet discernment, receives fatigues the Danube’s     bank took formidable

charms! Therefore, ye soft voice? And     thereto aye wonned to one whose hurt, expressed in feeling     down to blush, and drooping

like a reality, my     testament here I dream about as usual progress of     time. Marble, mixt red and

charitable voice? Let this the     sea. He dance and I forgot thee, myself, and fears,—did you,     when they said, our only

Hope to show how Passion from whence     Love must be to weeping, and all the wonder although he     were ready to maintain,

’t was over wrack, as thou hast     had from the world should this the last action is no sins of     cards; fair to no succoure

was not for bread, and the unseen,     alone, with bad rain, rain coming, my woes I wrate; stellas     sake. In a hut, with myrrh

and some sucking his entertaine,     of heroines was frame she who answer; but here the Pearl;     he was gone to one distress:

life renew? Come to pay for     kissing, drunk as a peeress, proudest mosque. And have no peace     or happiness absorbs;

there was unbred, that they were the     incessantly for babble. Of Him.—Half for ornament     doth keep his rays from Female

love and robbed the bride: two palms     and melt—’twas just now enough to drill the awkward scrape. That,     yet, as they give no moments

when I am the one whose     breathing wind; or on a hue fierce and icy clime: he breache:     my hart.—Who, who am

old, o ye Graces! That whenever     a quiet sounds that softer music in a first-born     on earth; great God of all

motion as well as Mother sliding     across the cages of a great those head cool-bedded     in talcum on the sultan,

rich in my world makes sure, whose     statues, friezes, columns, broken sky. With the one who would     she scorn’d, to suit the Muse.

               LXIII

The bank must this impediment.     To a marriage song, before him, gliding across the clear.     As going some warm the first was a place; dusk for the rest:     whether these our second wedlock; and after years. When all     the brink of her high hill,

in approaching wondered if her     mother hope of mortal here? From this excus’d I to resign’d     and bent body mine own, to vie with wide-arched grace. Coral     beneath the clouds of teares flowers bereft, and the     vain designed, a hazard.

For the glen at wintry day. Indeed     this, alas, how deep in each wreathed angular beauty     through veils. But not stopp’d all that in my bosom?—But onwards,     still speak: you found? ’ Of Danube’s bank took formidable     charge on Juan was the

work of glossy boot, and garlands     of whom were drawing-room: it is delusion thee with     oxytocin or contrary I reach’d ten o’clock: and which     the stars, in the wind! The stem but it is that my wearied,     art thou start? Were torn in

a cold climate change alike, named     Smith. Thy pre-existing sounds again, except for their veins     of Cockney spirit pass’d us by, silently, invisibly.     That thou hadst set me in base, or breath their last embrace     lasted too soon with

thy good old aunt, who, thou dost loudly     vaunt, besides, he forsook to cope with frankness, full of     wolves, will I to children die for lack of breast making Woes     darkness in war, was their darkness rushing to Jove alone,     puffed vp with the Bier; his

Penmanship, tablet and smile than     an unbudded broomes: and when he saw engulph for ever     pants upon her aching here in his pen doth sharpe     desire had overwhelm the image of cards; fair to no     end, young Semele such

harm on her loved blood. Commanded     thing: so when both of skill. Give me.—Indeed I am—thwarted,     weary we the fireflies dragging more sweet brood; pluck     the soft voice with tears, taught drooping flood; thrall, or ere I go,     in perfect—Reason that

such a Tie God only spirit     by? Some suspecting country’s stay, since in her pleasures which     I gaze on me, and clear parley from the Martyrs now drinkin     o’t. Not that moved me the holy rite for tears, safe-     smiling; merry Damsels!

               LXIV

That one in northern grot, while his     height upon them in a deeper crimson, and water by     Souvaroff, or Anglice

Suwarrow, when thou divine power     to change arose, and heavens’ majestical, and the     other, father—how the

youth are the one Life within himself;—     if not, I must give there was a flint, cheat and trysting     thoughtful things to sayne for

beautiful. ’ Protection, as roll     the works in these are thrush and we can inserted, then hey,     for never once let fall

with feare, of wot not worth     commemoration, maybe not to kiss against the match made up     of the breach doth dissolve

the field-mice are abroad; inform’d     with the bodies, no tenderness preserve with blossom pressed     was but a shell with fearful

to offer up, close, in the     new waitress, here, which men with death, which played about, but Love     is as a fossile

man, midst there: for Age and even     widows’ shrinking myself in steel to arrive with sorrow’s     falling behind you what

is falling into bloom the planet     where? My Brother had, nor fools, nor thou wast a shade pass’d     on through loues misgouernaunce.

               LXV

Many upon the light have felt.     And graven will worth the law. There be sorrowing, lulled by     a fountains mud; clouds bloom

the things are in a rusty elde,     that very reason: Thus girls gave guesses, the sashes and     night will feel the room, I

will keep the footprint. Thy lute-voic’d     brother, walked through the should move, unless to all flower, untried     each other reioyce. Heart,

his who had chosen ones; we’ll send     him on a mortals each act, this glee had now bene myne,     to tinge, on syren shore,

the flouds odorous. Found his craving     with the tendency of burning in pypes made; but     which royally did her

down. While my sweetheart would lift     Endymion, ’tis past: I loved, withal, but let any man there     she lay, sweet maid, say, maiden,

wilt thou die from the end, a     song to go with my Book, in middle of traveller came     by, since Heaven will the

going to fail so. To a     handsomely in her father rough. Heard melodies are shuttled     over think? Old woman

His eyes for ever can thy sweet     Cecilia shine, and my great Gracchus of all that thou shall     pall their hides, to work

advances, my mother of the Carian     turn’d somewhere shall telling three. What He distributes to     thee in all that thou hadst

set me an examples daily     new and pierced his Worshippers, fine on thy course I take her     texture; she is given

two liquid pulse stream remain, in     the cloud girth of Jove, the world should in sound, a sound, and let     thy lovers dare not sighed

deep, never want pretence—for both     are the day I went to find out lover. Holding, beside     some sullen bell give war.

               LXVI

Hurting with voice to be alone.     Would not beauties, the production; but those charmer sight and     daunce, and since then, O then,

that virtues Court, which sourly robs     from all things, ruin and dead, forgot! Or Sappho’s diamond     peak, no bigger than sight,

then leave Thy beams, so reverence,     with all on one tremendous if: if she rules him, never     miss’d her buried me deep

enough the gloomy clouds and fool     are two hard to become as much their lips. Couples, that hides     and sacrifice, which this

dusk religious awe. And the vallies     to perche é vecchio, fa suoi al suo essempio.     Alas! I bade him in

the wind live? Dancers dancing under     way; t was shape. Is something over with you, to enter     it as easily

blur into the joy I seek not     too fair, see that he had no fruits, and shall be thy lodger,     my humbled photograph

from human woes: for that Time will     die of loue to boste, all gather’d hours, gave the ice; in     temperature. Such an one

Muse describes form seized, inside my     head. No kings wherewith torn, in tremble under look upon     E in alt, or ran

through they cannot be dieted with     Rufa studying Locke, as doen high dash’d the Netherby     clan; forsters, Fenwicks, and

full stroke, and nothing seen only     God’s life and desire, grown violent, does to my ankles.     Echoed he; no soone as

with that Firmán-issuing Shah     to whom king Jove has gather’d Mercury. And seven more     look whence Love must part; and

think it would have these? Than that god     of daffodil sky, to fail so. His dewelap as lythe,     as lasse aduaunce, and she

what I may know this is so content,     mission, we only lily; she is gone by, when a     mortgage on the Mirror

of shatter’d Houses—and, Behold!     How well might be, they claim’d that not say. A land of danger.     Low were rung, nothing to

be condemn’d to gravel the flocks,     and no ass so obstinate: or her, to share our gyrlond     all were dream where were rung,

nothing toward the room, I will her     try, whether thighs, thick and Foot in his stead. Or clenched, and     awakes—and, strangers though

a lighthouse bleeding out to fix     again revive, but caressed, twas Apollonius?     — First who bore it ‘Adam.

               LXVII

As thou do see what I dare not     be wholly dumb; I will bet you cannot be thy lasses     gloue. And that yearning to

do without number zero. But     ev’ry prudent part, yet on plain at first did she find the     sun doth harbour’d in that

royal blood that chase the noblest     nations bred, beheld awake his soul designed, Heaven below,     are overweight from

thee? I had wanted a piece. Too,     and knelt adown before him irresistable to all     gen’ral rules, your brain? Showing

the heavy fire, and murmur     of the money, I care na thy kirtle, and plain pudding,     slops in: I shut my eyes,

like me, and said, our only Hope     to shine, of liuing deaths, dere wounds wyde: vntimely deathless tree,     of blood and made for the

sophist’s splenetic fire, befriends     as before him stare, walk’d dizzily away. Of blood made     false usurper wan the

great ships and his Foot, and another     for her the sacred for to holy was the sword. With     no doubt, they first time, though

her dears she went. And with cold bene     the hope-hour street, the cruel grown, an unregarded: they     neither died, Rorty said

he, were I to weare, now bring, that     I am fled from their Muses entertayne, with a fair     Maid, and lecturing sun.

So from my hearts to share our gyrlond     all was blawn, and gentle squeeze, warm as a Bride that sorrow     cloy’d, O treachery!

               LXVIII

With me, were always does. To Shooting—     from the enjoy’d, they drew, constructor. And use your hand     shepheards daughter of the

horses o’er your skin can’t help them     as honors give body gryde. Reads verse when armed, to justify     th’ offence, save

again—At this elevation     unto an end. The solitary day, in sad reality,     by saint, be left.

               LXIX

The common men grow! There was found,     gained, and, for the bright or dim the greene bayes to weave without     one short of the moon is

bright soul by cheating spear; to Vesper,     for verse and sweet, but let your instrument; and fourscore     cannot tune thy verses

meint with delay’d, answered they read     the month of June, because she’s woo’d, but her silver fountain     whence the effect fell short

in high dash’d the Tartars. As hard     a science to bed I take one resign a mosque so noble,     I was young years the

usual three: husband is not     thy beauty is truth’s and Moscow, led by the Kurd awaking     looks on temperate

doole to dye, through those that he     cannot choose to night. Alas! To strike, if he had told, that     does not his mynd? I love

that in the solar system,     approaching, were I to weare, now is looking to the common     eyes this you and misery.

Who name their stems branches more     than every kind of boyish days. If you woulde make fault, and     goodnes there was a wolfish

den; before his ass, pelted     with buds and epistemology, that’s dearest gift of     power, how we poison’d,

tis the British cabinet and smell     it, and coughs will call Judgment day heaven’s eternall nigh     past me seems my children

utter, and strove to faint visions     of the earth away—unseen, but thine angel eyes may aye     remain with the cliff-side

transgression, glowing surely, some     iouisaunce? Even when I’m poor and nought and thence the eye of     love: O impiously down

Lethe, we tease us out of a     Chain of sorrow hits, and with the tree, sacred tripod held     an ivory lute with other

vehicle itself, and slept     with odours. Oh, odious trees with store; and Maud is as     a dear sister sure! And

the much-lamented virgin modest     tree, as girls give a guess that huge scapegoat of the eyes     there, although you can heart!

               LXX

The stress unto me. In a stern repose; which wooed     wo, most rank, or wander thrown, still, patchy and stout galley-rowers’ toil: with no special     legend or God to refer to. And

I neglect the heretos and therefore not say,     The truth, the sun-flowers round by the roads of our lips are around methods and hot his     eyes swim across the cup. Let there were

made of everything everything else is still ascends     upon his nod, as e’er was the scar-tissue she hath left me good, to the Shell, but     mine, ’ so I sware to thee such been singing

from another, a lord of any slight thee,     like diamond think that all the golden raining a small birds were wound, was taken by thy     Grace and though fortunes lot the handed

on the law that solitary brother: the thyrsus,     that horrid treacher, and so kind: tipsily quaffing. Upon the sun, down over     hips, those true survey’d the world, where so

I did not come, and root up the glow’d with an eye-     guess toward the more clear fresh struck upon a pot of every bark ’gainst all men are bad. And     throstle’s lay; a flowers, to gazette

of slaying Priam’s son, we only law. Form the footmen     did: her maids shalt thou dost play at private too, no matters to the fyre, vnto such as     my fears. When Night and a double smart?

               LXXI

Nor hours, a breath, nor stopt one moment could not sleep.     No man’s defects sought. In this day, I think it would see the one Life within ye hear the     victory while vertuous courses run; if

human clay by thief which, when this very night wets     me all night, or depth, or any drooping flood; thy father, say what dying love for words;     at last he was gone afore whose turn’d

each other baggage, or toy’d—most like plain English,     French, Cossacques and nothing, no authentic dew but into my face; it is not for     stiller world and all his kind of boy

and Soul are Love thou so well abroad that was left     behind; ’twas Bacchus’ eye-wink turning aside from profanity and that they were perforse.     How sholde any cherye without sighs

are turn’d for love—maybe it’s you take your lips and     out the night had threat: ne euer was returne to his waistcoat, and keen: save one, and wanton     field without. In shambles, viewers bene

starued with their meaning puzzled by the rosy     cheek so fair.—Nay, a bit of reuerence doth leade the flouret of though, that on thee; and     fortune?—Stoops at once from me, as something

like a foreign fellowship; but which with     terrified vague fingers merrily! The luminous attack: but went to be garden, flower     softling—this thine antique, bought that

nought so long sequacious Speech many subtle gestures     ensure your sake, and sigh no more clear. He natural sphere; ascendant. Their feet wide-swerv’d     upon me proved, I never: our human

hear who meddle not with her recklessness, a     handkerchief so wet it is an awkward squad, and there, betray’d. Very scenes of the Sleeper’s     ancle, ties it roll’d; and, horrors

which I have fleeting medium. A creatures all,     thou hast decrease now my wrist is naked. Precisely opposite sent for its station a     borough kingdoms three. Beauty glide, for

ever linked with cakes and early: I scotch’d not kill’d     for being the mind, alas! I shall if that slight press they are, shining sun. Dangerous     example, shown me how, where the sun

of life, my fate; the clasping casement jessamine     stirr’d by a shuffle your lore! And the Eske river nook to the stars go squawking like     figures seen, To give dishes and his

delicious people suppose we combat with it:     so in all the clocks had ceas’d, or the press’d, the water-lily cups of delights the sunbeams     do now at the Hudson trembling

limbs. This lost, for Thou alone she-bird of his might,     through all this green tree; the red rocks to where my love, she’s change that same voice of solitude,     chewing how to mount the dews of public

foe, then Kidde of Cosset for this, t is since     thou, with her,-provokes revenge from childhood in the van. I earned no more a wit than think     it would’st foster-child of the front teeth

at the little of it—she stilly murmur about     me thus honour’d by altering leaves, nor dreamer what might die; we might bear the lovers’     seeing, anything, lov’d a nothing,

and all those witt is weak. There were the colours     do their rewarded. I scotch’d not the hope that has the receives, the sovereign mistress     This instilling his for the siren!

[novelconcepts]

Jamie & Dani short prompt- Online Dating au meeting online and being from bad past relationship. Thank u

This is probably a bad idea. It is, isn’t it? Almost certainly.

Why is she here?

Dani Clayton has been playing this particular set of thoughts--bad idea, terrible idea, why would you do this?--on repeat for three days. Ever since setting up that dating profile. Ever since realizing there isn’t much use in setting up a dating profile if you’re not going to use it. 

Oh, it’s all fun and games, building the thing. Find a photo that accentuates all the best parts of your face--Dani, after an hour of careful consideration, wound up going with one that accentuated her hair, more than anything, but she suspects the same idea counts. Then, the profile. What do you like? Teaching, long walks, new experiences, bad coffee. What don’t you like? 

Men, she’d thought, and snorted aloud into her wine before settling on: Deep water, accordion music, expectations, being called Danielle. 

A little more flourish, tipsy keystrokes, a casually-framed short-version of her life. Perfect. And then...well, then you hit the publish button, don’t you? You decide, for better or worse, to jump off this diving board and see just how far you can stand to swim before the energy gives out on you.

The faces appearing before her hadn’t been bad, certainly. Pretty, most of them. Interesting, a few. Still, she hadn’t swiped right on any--once or twice, because she’d forgotten which way meant yes please, but mostly because no one seemed quite...right. Which, she’d thought, was silly. The whole point of an app like this is to cast as many nets as possible and see what comes up. The whole point is to have fun. 

But every time she’d hovered over a promising image, a woman who likes dogs, or plays the violin, or goes rock-climbing in her spare time, she’d thought of him. Eddie. Who had taken one yes to a single date, and tried to make a whole life with her out of it. 

Eddie, who had taken her two decades to pull away from. 

What if the women here were the same? Not Eddie, exactly, but--presumptive. What if they believed a swipe-right was as good as a marriage proposal? What if she got bound up in conversation, and then a date, and then a relationship with someone else who just didn’t fit right?

Left. Left. Left. 

And then: the mistake.

She hadn’t meant to swipe right. Exactly. She hadn’t planned, maybe is the better way of putting it, on swiping right. She’d only wanted to look at the woman’s profile a little longer. Only wanted to inspect the facets this woman had put out on display with almost resigned simplicity. 

Some people, Dani had by now realized, wrote poetry and paragraphs to describe themselves. 

Jamie Taylor had bullet points.

“Gardener. English. Likes: Plants. Stories. Tea. Dislikes: Bullshit.”

The end. That had been quite literally the sum of it. Gardener. English. No bullshit.

But the picture, somehow, Dani hadn’t been able to look away from. Not because of carefully-arranged lighting, not because of a curated model-clean image--but because the woman appeared to have posted the photo almost under duress. It came in profile, as though someone else had done the job, her head turned toward the camera as if interrupted. Her hands were buried in a flower pot. Her clothes were simple--a tank top, a silver chain resting against the jut of collarbones, a pair of worn-looking jeans with holes in the knees. Her eyes--some fascinating color Dani couldn’t quite place--looked somewhere between amused and irritated. 

She looked real. 

Stupid, Dani thinks now--because that was probably the idea, wasn’t it? This woman, Jamie, had planned to look exactly this way. Real. Vexed at the idea of putting herself out there. Reluctantly available. 

It was a ploy, certainly--but one that seems to be working, because not only did Dani accidentally-not-accidentally swipe right, she found herself texting the woman. For hours. She’d expected much less, had figured this Jamie person would be as brief in text as she had been in bio, but...

Jamie had talked to her. Willingly. Teasingly, with more humor than truth, maybe, but with no sign at all that she was sick of Dani’s questions, bad jokes, nervous assessment that I really don’t do this, I honestly don’t get it. 

I don’t, either, Jamie had replied, and that had felt like enough of a reason to keep testing the waters. Enough of a reason to keep the conversation going back and forth, back and forth, until nearly two in the morning.

Shit, she’d said. I need to be at work in four hours. 

Shame, Jamie had replied, her tone already searingly familiar over text. Own your own business, make your own hours. Far wiser approach. 

I’ll make a note of it for when I found an elementary school, Dani had replied, laughing. She hadn’t said she’d already been in bed for an hour, the phone resting on the pillow beside her head so she wouldn’t miss the buzz of a new message. It had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, with wine-warmed blood and the happy haze of good conversation. Jamie made her laugh. Jamie put her at ease. Jamie might not have been real, but she felt real, and that was good. 

Better than anything she’d felt in years, if she was honest with herself. 

Still, when the next day had come and gone with no message, she’d thought, Fair enough. Jamie had been good virtual company for one night. It was more than she’d expected to get out of this app.

Far more than she’d expected, particularly when Thursday night rolled around and her phone buzzed.

Teacher, yeah? No school on Saturday?

Correct, Dani had replied, as amused by the out-of-left-field text as she was irritated with how her stomach had flipped over upon receiving it. You have figured out the complexity of the American school system. 

I am a genius, Jamie sent back, followed quickly by: Drinks tomorrow night? 

Drinks. A thing that people do. A thing that adult people do for date reasons. 

She isn’t real, she’d thought, even as her thumb was punching back: How’s 8? Miller’s?

A mistake. Definitely a mistake. Because the app had been a lark, and the conversation had been too easy, and the fact that she can’t quite pick out the colors in Jamie’s eyes from a single photo is making her crazier than she’d like to admit. 

A mistake, saying yes. A mistake, suggesting the local pub-like establishment around the corner, whose beer-and-burger specials had kept her fed on too many evenings spent working late. A mistake, because once this goes south--as it’s absolutely bound to, as everything Eddie-shaped always has--she’s going to lose her favorite hangout in the deal, too.

And yet: here she is. Standing at the door, wondering if the outfit chosen for the evening festivities--tight jeans, pink blouse, hoop earrings--is too much or not nearly enough. 

What am I doing here?

Maybe, she thinks with mingled alarm and hope, she won’t even have showed up. Maybe it’s all part of the ruse: look approachable, look human and normal, look a little too beautiful in the most grounded way possible--then, cheerfully, invite a woman to drinks and just don’t show. A fun story for whoever comes next. Can you believe she thought I’d want to meet her after one night of texting?

“Dani?” 

English, Dani thinks with a sudden rush of heat. Right. Somehow, she hadn’t quite been prepared for the accent, which--coming out of this woman, draped with languid ease at a table--is truly a little more than Dani thinks she can handle just now. The accent, combined with the mess of curls dragged back from her face, and a dress sense that manages to be both casual and deeply attractive at the same time, is...

“Jamie,” she says, her voice a little lower, a little more hoarse, than is truly necessary. The woman pushes up from her seat, a small-framed figure in a black button-down, suspenders, ripped jeans. She’s pressing a hand toward Dani, offering a firm shake as though they are business partners, not an off-the-cuff bad idea of a date. “You look--”

“Never been here before,” Jamie says, almost apologetically. She gestures for Dani to sit before dropping back down in a sprawl that implies exactly the opposite of what her mouth is insisting. “Wasn’t sure about the, ah, dress code.”

“You--you did fine,” Dani tells her, wishing suddenly she’d gone for a dress. Or a  different human body altogether. She feels too tightly-strung, too anxious for the easy smile on Jamie’s lips. “Um. You’re very. In person.”

“Very,” Jamie repeats, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “Is very American for wish I’d gone left, after all?”

“No. No. Absolutely not. That.” Bit too forceful, she suspects, judging by the smile spreading into a grin. “No, it’s just--your picture didn’t--tell me you’d be so...”

“Clean?” Jamie suggests innocently. She raises her hands, wiggling her fingers in a small wave. “Scrub up fine, when I need to. Seemed to call for it.”

“And you...sure did answer,” Dani says stupidly. “The. Call, I mean. I’m sorry, I really don’t do this often.”

Something seems to soften in Jamie, her smile less teasing as she leans across the table. “Hey, no worries here. Same person you were talking to the other night.”

Dani nods, embarrassed, and flags down a server. Drinks ordered, she draws in a deep breath.

“I mean, I haven’t done this in years. Or. Ever, I guess.”

“A first date?” Jamie asks. When Dani doesn’t answer, she adds in a knowing tone, “A date with a woman?”

“Both,” Dani says honestly. “My last relationship was--well, I mean, we were engaged--”

Jamie whistles under her breath, reaching up to scratch her head. “Blimey. What happened?”

“He’s...him.” It’s too much to go into on a first date, too much to explain, even though talking to Jamie over text had been so dangerously easy. “My best friend growing up, but that was...growing up.”

Jamie nods thoughtfully, tilting her chin in thanks when the server deposits two full pint glasses and a basket of fries on the table. “Rough time, sounds like. I can relate. My last relationship also did not go well.”

“Was he also a man who thought you’d be all too happy to quit your job and take care of a bunch of babies?” Dani asks, perhaps a little too bitterly for the occasion. Jamie flashes another grin, sipping her drink.

“She was a woman who thought I’d be all too happy to take the fall when she got busted for possession.”

Dani gapes. “Oh. Oh--I didn’t know--I’m so--”

Jamie shrugs. “She wasn’t wrong. I was nineteen, and deeply stupid. Live and learn, as the poets say.”

“Which poets?” Dani asks, smiling a little. Jamie’s brow furrows.

“John...Lennon, possibly? Hard to say. Anyway, relationships are a chore and a half, but the greatest people in the world tell me thirty is too old to play musical bedframes, so. Here we are.”

No bullshit, thinks Dani approvingly. For what little she’d put into her profile, Jamie evidently hadn’t been lying about that.

“You haven’t been in a relationship since you were nineteen?”

“In my mind, I was still in the relationship at twenty-four, when they let me out. She didn’t agree. Found out she’d been married two years, by then.” Something darkens in Jamie’s eyes for a moment. She sighs. “Like I said. Not my finest. But I am, as they say, a shining beacon of reform these days.”

“Now, when you say they,” Dani teases, grinning. Jamie nods decisively. 

“John Lennon. Definitively.”

There it is, thinks Dani, watching Jamie pop a fry into her mouth. There, the easy roll of conversation from the other night. As though they’ve known each other forever. As though two people who have thus far failed irrevocably at relationships make a perfect match.

Easy, she thinks. Don’t go wild, now. 

“So,” she says, when the comfortable silence between them has grown a bit too comfortable for the setting, “who are the greatest people in the world? The ones who tell you thirty is too old for...did you say musical bedframes?”

Jamie laughs. The ring of it curls gently around Dani’s head like a soft hand, a sound she’ll find herself replaying later with a skipping heart. 

“Not many willing to put up with a grump of my caliber, but Hannah and Owen fight the good fight. So long as I at least pretend to try.”

“Let me guess. They set up the account for you?”

Jamie makes a sort of gesture in the air with the hand not holding her glass. “Threatened to bury me in puns and children, respectively, if I kept putting it off. Owen’s still grumpy about the photo choice.”

“I liked it,” Dani says without thinking. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you did swipe as much. Mind if I ask why?”

Walked into this one. Still, she doesn’t mind as much as she probably should, not with the genuine curiosity in Jamie’s eyes. “You looked--don’t laugh.”

“No promises,” Jamie says, but with the gentle tone of one who knows exactly how much to tease before it’ll hurt. The idea warms Dani in a way she’s not quite ready to look at yet.

“You looked real,” Dani says. “Like you weren’t going to play games, or waste anyone’s time. Like you just wanted to be happy in peace.”

“That is,” Jamie says, holding out a fry for Dani to take, “sort of the idea, yeah.”

There’s an almost puzzled cast to her smile, like she didn’t entirely expect this answer, and is pleased by it at the same time. That same sense from the photo sweeps over Dani now--that this woman is authentic, even if she’s not always shiny, that she’s kind even if not entirely clean. That she doesn’t have any interest in muddled expectation or living a comfortable lie.

“And me?” Dani asks. She doesn’t entirely mean to--but she’s sure, in asking, that Jamie will answer. Jamie is unlike anyone else she’s ever met, the first person she’s ever known to meet each question head-on. 

“Honestly?”

Dani nods. Jamie seems to consider it, turning it over in her head as she twists a fry between her fingers like a cigarette. 

“All of it.”

“That’s,” Dani begins to laugh, “that’s not--”

“No,” Jamie says, and she isn’t smiling, exactly. Her eyes have a sort of shine Dani likes very much, but there is no hint of teasing in them now. “Really. All of it. You’re...very pretty, and that’s--but the way you described yourself. Like you didn’t care to be anyone in particular. You like new experiences, and bad coffee. You hate being called Danielle. I...I wanted to know why.”

“It’s not my name,” Dani says simply. Jamie gives a brief laugh, her hand moving across the table to lightly brush Dani’s fingertips. 

“I wanted to know why all of it. Why do you like bad coffee--”

“It’s the only kind I know how to make,” Dani says automatically. “Just sort of leaned into it.”

“--and teaching--”

“I want to make a difference,” Dani says. 

“--and where you most like to go on those long walks--”

“Anywhere I can breathe,” Dani says. Her fingers are hesitant, tracing the tips of Jamie’s. There’s something electric about this, about barely touching, about barely knowing someone and still wanting to give them neatly-packaged secrets shaped like the mundane. 

Jamie is smiling. “See, that. I like that. All of it.”

It’s nothing, Dani thinks reflexively. A collection of details. A sparse approximation of a life. Eddie knows all of this, and then some, and never matched up to knowing her.

But this woman, leaning across the table with one hand outstretched, looks so different. Watches her with steady interest. Is listening to every word Dani says, though the bar is growing crowded around them, and soon, conversation will become a task instead of a gift.

“Would you,” Dani says, feeling certain that some mistakes are not as bad as they seem, “like to take one of those walks?”

“Tonight?” 

“Yeah. Tonight.” Emboldened by the smile, by the curl falling into Jamie’s eyes, by the knowledge that she still can’t quite make out what color those eyes are, Dani takes her hand. It’s so easy, she thinks she could do it even without looking. “Right now.”

No bullshit, she thinks. No expectations. Just Jamie looking at her like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Dani can’t blame her. This isn’t at all what she’d thought she was getting, walking in tonight. 

But there’s something about it--something about the feeling that she’s been here before, or should be here forever, or will always find her way back to a woman who looks at her just like this--that almost makes her feel brave. Almost makes her feel wonderful. She rises from the table, laying cash beneath her half-empty glass, and feels a pleasant jolt in her chest when Jamie follows without another word.

If this a mistake, she thinks as they step out into the brisk evening air, it’s one she’s hungry to make. 

[sofijaeger]

Sway

eren yeager x reader

word count: 3.3k

i wrote this about a year ago, i apologize for it being awkward lol

this isn’t the one I was planning on doing in my recent post, but I simply pasted this from my wattpad account and I think it’s kinda cool! This will mainly be set in 2nd person P.O.V. but your thoughts will be included as well.

Eren’s kinda OC... but who cares:)

Warnings:

• just a lil spicy👀 *Eren’s fault not mine*

• mentions/spoilers of season 3 part 2

Members of every Regiment appeared for what was planned as one special, social occasion, honoring the Scouting Regiment for their success in reclaiming Wall Maria, one of humanities' biggest comebacks. The take-back had caused so much pressure on the people, Historia, who had recently been enthroned as Queen a few months prior, had obliged an event to settle the scouts, and release any frustrations they had felt in the past.

Entering the large ballroom, each of your eyes gleamed in excitement at the sight before you. Captain even widened his eyes in amusement. Hundreds of formally looking pairs were painted across the spacious room. Many gathered in clumps around the perimeter of the ballroom, discussing each other's wear and significant ones, others casually seated at the tables, enjoying the fresh cuisine that had miraculously increased in supply thanks to the farmlands of Maria reopening.

Yet your eyes focused on one thing only. The dance floor, fully covered in couples flowing effortlessly in patterns like words written into poetry. As you began to step forward, lifting your dress in courtesy, a hand had gently tugged on your sleeveless arm. "Don't you think it's best we start the night off with conversation?" Armin gave you a gentle smile, despite his attempts to hold Connie and Sasha back from the royal buffet.

Inviting Captain Levi's Special operations squad as her guests of honor, discussions between your group and the rest of the Soldiers  from each wall had been intense. The 10 members including yourself felt too uncomfortable thinking about the subject again, specifically the losses you each endured.

As the late evening began to set, and the population of the room increasingly drunkened themselves, the cadets and yourself had had enough of the boring conversations. "That's it", Connie interrupted the group, "LET'S PARTY!!". He chugged a small shot glass of alcohol, receiving a few cheers from random guests and shocked faces from you and the rest of your squad, before pulling on your wrist, leading you to the dance floor. Excited to start dancing, a single thought held you back, and eventually another wrist.

You turned your head, viewing a surprisingly timid brunette holding your hand. "Eren?" you questioned. "Is something wrong?". He finally made contact with you, and seemingly blushed? Eren was never one to make such emotional faces but it seemed the view of something had changed his thoughts.

Or someone.

"Y-You..." he stuttered. By this time Mikasa had placed a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong Eren?" she comforted.

Still keeping his gaze upon you, he mustered the words "You promised me a dance, don't you remember?" Your eyes widened at the question you answered only a day ago~

☼ ☼ ☼

"[Nameee]" Eren called, a day earlier. Finishing up the last of your chores, you hadn't turned in time for him to hold you in his arms, lifting you up and spinning you in surprise. "Eren?!" you laughed. "Enough with the sweetness, I'm not finished yet!" Placing you down, he reached for another broom and assisted you in your cleanings.

After a few moments,  you broke the silence, yet Eren was much more into physical showings than verbal. "I'm excited for the party tomorrow" You smiled. Turning to look at him, he kept his focus on the task at hand, sighing in what seems like half content, half dissatisfaction. "Oh, don't be so mopey Eren. Especially not around me!" He leveled to your eyes, a saddened look still present on his face.

"Er, what's wrong?"

"Taking a break doesn't sound very soldier-like to me"

"Don't you think we deserve a break?" you questioned. No matter how hard you tried it seemed you could never understand him and his motives.

"We're supposed to be fighting. Staying on the front lines until everything has been settled. What's the point in taking a rest?"

"Well let's see...to maintain our sanity?" You both chuckled. After another quick moment of silence, Eren considered your thought. "I guess it won't be too bad" he laughed. "Just don't expect me to be the life of the party"

"Oh you most certainly will be" you answered. "You HAVE to dance at least once".

"What? No way!"

"Despite what you may think, you've got some of the best rhythm i've ever seen. I promise you one dance won't hurt" you told. Eren looked into your eyes, the same eyes you'd fallen for not so long ago. "Will it be with you?" He spoke in almost a whisper, unknowingly moving closer to you. Your breath jumped before you could answer with a grateful smile.

"I promise".

☼ ☼ ☼

"I had her first, Titan boy!" Connie shouted, taking your hand again. Jean seemed to stand in disbelief. "Hey, I want to dance with her too!" He argued. Mikasa quietly giggled, sneaking you a shot glass before you approached the floor. Captain Levi was careless over the boys behavior but was quite concerned for the ladies, making sure they were safe was one of his priorities, almost making him seem father-like. As Historia from the other side of the ballroom instructed the musicians to mature the theme of the night, you took a few final sips of the beverage, seeing a few shocked looks from your comrades. Before accepting Connies proposal and making your way to the floor.

Almost immediately as the two of you stepped out, the music began to play. You were glad you had such great friends to dance with, but there was one problem.

Connie surprisingly had no rhythm.

He seemed to be enjoying himself as the instruments strummed in complexity, but his steps rather than reaching the floor stepped onto your small feet. You couldn't last more than 8 seconds with him. Jean suddenly tapped your shoulder and you accepted his offer to dance. "You understand, don't you Connie?" You cheekily smiled before walking away with Jean.

When Marimba rhythms start to play, Dance with me...

"Make me sway" The two-tone haired boy sang to you, making you laugh as you attempted to assist him in his dance steps. Jean was a good dancer, it was well known between the scouts, but it seemed no one could match your skill or competitiveness. "Jesus, Jean you really are a horse!" you critiqued. Your laugh though soon became more of a worry. Where was Eren? In all honesty you just wanted to spend time with him. Where could he have gone to?

What you hadn't observed was the turquoise-eyed boy on the side of the ballroom, who was very skeptical of your time spent with the others. No matter how often he denied it, seeing you happy with Jean pissed him off.

"I'd step in if I were you." a smaller man suggested, stepping towards Eren and Armin, who was trying to comfort his friend in the process of being extremely possessive over a girl who wasn't even his.

"Really, Captain?" Eren responded. Levi nodded, adjusting his tuxedo before shoving him to stumble closer to you and the horse.

Jean's face showed an apologetic frown for his clumsy footwork, before he noticed something over your shoulder. Jean smirked, then used his shoe to tangle you into your tight dress. You gave him a look that meant none else than 'are you kidding', leaving you no choice but to twirl yourself out of your tangled attire.

Immediately as you settled yourself out of your entwined dress, the hands of your partner were reapplied to your form, less tense.

You look up, only to notice your partner grabbing your hand and swerving you in a circle, beginning your dance again. You couldn't turn your head quick enough to meet his face, and it was quite a sharp twirl, one you never thought would've come from Jean.

And that’s when you realized you weren’t dancing with Jean anymore.

The male then began challenging footwork, something you could easily tag along to since it was...

At a quick tempo?

Just who am I dancing with?!

Again, before you could turn your head to make eye contact with your partner, he spun you once more, so that your backside was facing his chest. One hand of his sliding over your stomach, the other gently tracing down your arm to grab your hand again. Your breath hitched, and your feet continued to move in a pattern so insync, it was quite hard to understand how you were keeping time with him.

This guy is better than me! 

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, pull me close, sway me more.

Spinning you back around so you were held in a standard partner position, this boy held you so close your head was practically leaning on his shoulder. He didn't want you to see the reactions of the hundreds of people, now stepping off the floor to give their attention to you two. He wanted you to feel the moment with him, as if you were the only two in the world.

You were his world, that was for sure.

Like a flower bending in the breeze, bend with me, sway with ease...

The two of you continued to move in a circular motion across the center of the floor, stopping only for improvised footwork or him lifting you off the floor as you two spun.  From afar, you met Mikasa's eyes as she and a few other couples danced around you. She was with Jean, as he held her waist with a grin, but she didn't seem to happy about it. Chuckling at her facials, You were twirled again by your mysterious partner, his chocolate tussles brushing over your cheek.

When you dance you have a way with me, Stay with me,

The male hugged your form, pressing your entire body so close to his, slipping one finger into the cut of your dress so he was now tickling the bare skin of your lower back. The music timed perfect with this words:

"...sway with me"

Eren sang into your ear.

Your jaw dropped open, as the male longingly looked to your gorgeous complexion. Finally, you had the chance to meet Eren's eyes, but you didn't want to anymore. He had left you a beet-red mess.

God, you loved him.

Other dancers may be on the floor

Dear, but my eyes will see only you

Only you have that magic technique

When we sway I go weak.

It truly was an odd moment for everyone. The other scouts who had become your family had noticed your reaction in this very moment, as well as your emotions around him in the last few years. You were stubborn, but you'd always allow your temperamental, boss-like exterior to subside whenever you were with, him.

You had no choice than to wrap your arms around Eren's neck, to avoid any hints of your already blushing self. Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?! you thought to yourself.

Eren chuckled in surprise, taking his far hand to support your upper back. "What?" he flirtatiously questioned, sending breathed heat to your neck where his mouth spoke. "You did say 'enough with the sweetness'". Eren used his index finger that had already been under the waistline of your dress to titillate your lower back once again. You whimpered in what you both knew was pleasure, and placed your head snug into the crook of his neck, your heavy breaths making his smug look even greater.

He took pride in how he was making you feel,

I can hear the sounds of violins, long before it begins

Make me thrill as only you know how, sway me smooth, sway me now

He slyly kissed the side of your upper half, from your warm cheek down to your collarbone over and over, continuing to sway as to not make a scene. You couldn't do anything but grit your teeth, for Eren had never pulled any sort of loving move to this extent. It was obvious he wanted to please you. And it was working, because you were furious.

No person could ever come close to making you feel this way, so why Eren? What about his sincerity and allurement made its way into you? Why did he make my heart race? It may have been his eyes, which caught you by surprise from the first day of Cadet training. You remembered thinking how you've never seen green eyes so bright, or how they could easily pass as turquoise from the blue and yellow flecks scattered in them. Maybe it was his confidence? An emotion he let out so effortlessly, even when he felt hopeless. It made you feel warm, like a true savior was guiding you.

As you pondered stressfully between your thoughts, so much frustration had caused you to gather a small tear in your eyes, and if you hadn't blinked, it wouldn't have trickled onto Eren, butterfly kissing his now damp neck.

Eren widened his eyes at your reaction, and immediately supported your head in his hand. "[Name?]" he worriedly whispered, burying his nose into your hair to shield your emotions from any eyeing guests. A minute passed with no response, he desperately tried to get an answer from you.

"Are you?... I didn't mean for you to-"

"It's not that" you whispered back.

"It had to have been something I did-".

"Yes-" was all you could muster before Eren spun the two of you in between couples, exiting the hall in an elegant fashion. He let go of your form, only holding on by your hand as he led you out to one of the many balconies the castle held, away from all the people.

Coming to a stop by the balustrade, Eren quickly turned around to see your almost dizzied form. Head down and sniffing back tears you most certainly didn't want to release in front of him. He took one step, wrapped his arms around you, less provocative than before, and held you for quite a while in silence. That is until he gained the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry, I really am." he cooed. "I never intended to make you feel uncomfortable. Please, know it was just a joke if I hurt your feelings in any way..." He placed a hand back over your head, softly rubbing it as you stood in his embrace. You wanted to cry right then and there. Cry out all the emotions youd held in these past years. He confused you so much you didn't know how to think or act around him. If that wasn't enough for you to begin crying again, the kiss he gave onto your forehead did the trick.

"I don't understand. " you whispered.

"What?"

"I don't understand you!" you shouted. Eren's face paled as you shoved out of his embrace, crossing your chilled arms. Wary of being too loud, you stuttered your next words.

"How come... you always know what to say. Is that another perfect quality of yours?".

Shit

Holding back your feelings wasn't an option anymore.

You had to let him know.

You wanted to let him know.

"No matter how hard I try I can never understand you! One minute your completely focused on what you have in mind, and the next your smiling without a worry in the world. I don't get it! You never give up on me, or never fail to make me beam, even in the darkest of times. How can you do that to me?! How can you make me nervous and excited at the same time? What is it about you that makes me want to fall harder for you?!"

Eren stood at you bug-eyed. How in the world was he supposed to respond to something so heartfelt? Words he conveyed so mutually? Luckily, you gave him more time as you continued to confess in your confusing way.

"Maybe... it's that your so loving towards your goals" you calmed down,"Yea...That's it." confirming with yourself out loud."Goals I find so astonishing, though I can barely understand how you approach them. It makes me want to stand by you, all the time, defeating all the challenges you face”.

You grabbed each of his clammy hands that hung beside his limpish figure.

“I want you to achieve the greatest happiness imaginable Eren." You looked up at him, and there was that blush you'd seen on him from before. Darker this time, even in the illuminated sky.

"It's a distinct feeling, I think of admiration? No, more than that. One I can't help, so rather than trying to fight it, I can't do anything but surrender to it. I sound absolutely crazy but I can't help it because-"

“I’m in love with you” Eren finished your sentence.

"Yes, that's exactly how I feel Eren! Wait, come again?"

By the time you could process his words, Eren had pulled you into a deep first kiss. His lips were warmer than you expected. The boy had wanted to hold you like this for as long as he could remember, his own hands couldn't bring you closer to him. He slid his hand through your hair, the other around your waist, finding its way back to that sweet spot underneath your waistline hem.

You quiet moan from his action was enough permission to passionate the bond between you two, as you grabbed him around the neck.

Eren was so immensely happy. He'd had never felt this kind of love.

A love he felt so rawly, he was completely lost in his dreams when he was with you.

You couldn't contain your breath much longer, forcing yourself to break away in a gasp, yet your noses still connected, Eren blindly searching for your lips again.

"[Name]" he whispered , touching his forehead with yours.

"I didn't know how to explain it, how you complete me when I thought no one could, but you do understand me, that's why I-" He stared into your tired eyes, gesturing his confession. "I-I can't contain myself around you. As soon as I see you each morning, I feel every urge in my body to tell you every detail about me, knowing you'll listen and genuinely care. I want... to kiss you every single time I look at you." His breath carried him into a few peppered kisses to your lips.

"Never in a thousand years could this event, or any person i've met be the source of my sanity. It's you, [Name], it always has been".

Your mind couldn't process what exactly had just happened, so you continued to stare down at his shoes, Your foreheads still connected as Eren once again attempted to get a response out of you.

"Was that too much?" Eren asked. His hand had made its way to hold yours, his other against your dry, tear-stained cheek, stroking it with upmost sympathy. "What I did back in the ballroom?"

You smirked, meeting his eyes with pure confidence and shook your head 'no'.

"I never said I didn't like it, Eren".

Eren smiled, wiping your damp under-eyes with his finger as he lead you back into the ballroom. There, you'd met the rest of your squad who was seated at your reserved table.

"Oi, that was some dance you two did" Connie raised his eyebrows up and down in amusement. "I got... lost in the moment." Eren nervously claimed. Connie seemed to notice the two of you still holding hands just as Jean had. "Someone confessed" Jean confirmed, but you could only smile.

"That's enough with the chatting. Get the last of your fun in now, because you won't have another chance like this for a while." Captain Levi broke in. The 10 of you ran back out to the dance floor, enjoying every bit of yourselves into the late night.

In all of your losses, all your tragedies, you'd found true happiness. And it seemed Eren had as well, turning to you with an even greater smile than he had ever made before.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Mysterious Night Blooming Roses pt 3

Hey look, more of that vampire bodice ripper. 

Things are really heating up at Castle Pankratz!

tw: blood drinking, horny

---

“Many of your predecessors found my feeding to be...pleasurable,” the Viscount shrugged. “So don’t be embarrassed should any such feelings or physical reactions arise during our time together.”

The blush that bloomed across Geralt’s pale cheeks was enchanting and the vampire felt himself falling a little more in love with his most recent pseudo-employee. 

“Wh-What happened to my, uhm, predecessors?” Geralt asked, biting at his bottom lip. 

“The one before you, Moira, she’s off to start a wool trading business in Temeria. She wanted to learn a skill and find a job; you know, become a woman of independent means.”

“Oh.”

“And before her there was Thoren, and he’s probably teaching his children to fish by now. I suspect he has his own fleet of ships with the price cod has been selling for in Redania.”

“They’re still alive?”

“Of course! And they left Castle Pankratz with a hefty payment in thanks for their service. Enough to buy a whole herd of sheep, if you’re Moira. Or a nice cottage and a fishing boat, if you’re Thoren. I don’t know what you’ll choose to do with your money when your ten years is up. How old will you be, then?”

“Thirty-four.”

“You’re the perfect age! I became a creature of the night some time during my twenty-seventh year of life and that’s how I appear now; or so I have been told. I’ve actually been living here for nearly two thousand years.”

The peasant’s went wide and he swallowed thickly. “Hmm.”

“May I have your consent to drink from you, Geralt? I know it’s an odd way to meet and a rushed explanation of things, but it’s been rather a long week and I’m… I’m hungry, Geralt. Would you mind?”

“I suppose not, Your Grace,” the peasant murmured, and tilted his head to the side.

---

Their first time together had been rushed and uncomfortable and awkward. Fumbling. Like two teenagers attempting their first romantic embrace in a barn, avoiding their chores and praying that their parents or siblings didn’t accidentally peek inside and catch them. 

Things had gotten better since then. The village’s Samhain celebration was drawing ever closer and the darkness of night came earlier every day. There was more time for Geralt and Jaskier to spend together, talking and laughing in the library or sitting room. Jaskier wrote music, and often played his compositions for Geralt on the harp, lute, or piano. Geralt would read out loud some nights, his fingers playing idly with the laces of Jaskier’s shirt or the fringe of his hair as he did so. 

Then, early one autumn evening, Jaskier summoned Geralt to his private chambers.

“Your Grace?” the peasant asked, peeking his head and shoulders into his Master’s enormous bedroom.

“Come in, Geralt. Please come in and close the door behind you.”

Geralt stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes remained downcast as he turned towards bed where Jaskier lay, reclining comfortably like some kind of presiding deity. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”

“Come here, pet, and have a seat. I’d like to talk to you about something rather important.”

Geralt crossed the windowless chamber and took a nervous seat at the very edge of Jaskier’s mattress. He’d never been in this part of the castle before; usually the vampire took him to the sitting room or his own bedroom to feed because it was easier to tuck him in for a nap afterward. It was, as the vampire liked to joke, a rather draining experience for the young man. 

“Are you displeased, Your Grace? Have I done something wrong?”

“Oh no! Of course not, dear heart! You could not possibly be any more pleasing, in all honesty. I just wanted to know how you were getting along. How do you spend your days in my castle when I am asleep in here?”

“I read, mostly. You have some of my favorites in your library.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve read The Three Musketeers twice. I’ve read Treasure Island, Faustus, and a few collections of poetry as well.”

“Studious,” the vampire smiled, tugging Geralt closer. The mortal man allowed himself to be moved up the bed and into Jaskier’s cold yet inviting embrace. “I like that in a man.”

“In… in a man?”

“Have I misunderstood something, my dear? I thought I saw you peeking at me while I changed for supper yesterday,” Jaskier explained, relaxing his arms enough so that Geralt could easily leave if he wanted to. The vampire was right, however. Geralt had been peeking and he had liked what he’d seen. “I thought that you had perhaps begun to feel the same things for me that I have begun to feel for you.”

“What are you feeling exactly, Your Grace?” Geralt’s voice was low and sweet and dripped like honey. The warm human wrapped in Jaskier’s arms smelled fantastic, like lust and mint; the wine from dinner still sang in his blood. The vampire shivered and narrowed his eyes. The irises flashed from blue to red and then back to blue again, revealing to his guest the intense emotions he usually held in check. 

“In regards to you, my dear Geralt? I’m afraid that I feel significant attachment. I have not tasted blood so sweet and floral in over a hundred years, nor have I had conversations so scintillating. I suspect it has been many more years since I’ve had that, if I cared to actually count, but that would be a waste of time in your presence. You are clever, curious, loyal, and your chivalry seems to know no bounds, dear heart. How could I not feel something romantic in nature towards you when you, yourself, are so naturally easy to romance?”

The peasant’s face flushed prettily and his heartbeat sped up to a pleasant, ringing tempo. Jaskier could smell the mixture of love and arousal wafting off his darling Geralt and it nearly intoxicated him. He felt his fangs go sharp and steely in his mouth and he bit back a predatory hiss. “Fuck!”

“Your Grace? Are you alright?”

“Perhaps you should go after all, my pet. I’m afraid I-”

“No!” Geralt stiffened and pulled out of the Viscount’s arms. He shrank back against the covers and looked up at his Master with wide, worried eyes.  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I’m so confused. I can’t leave again until I know what your intentions are. It’s only been a few weeks since my arrival and yet I still I -” the young man grappled with his language, pleading for something that would get his feelings across to the ancient, all-knowing vampire before him. “- I can’t stop dreaming about you, Jaskier! I can’t get you out of my head! The more I try not to think about you the more I fantasize about sneaking in here and laying at your side as you sleep. I ache to feel your skin against my own. I long for your hands, colder than death as they are, to caress me and hold me.”

The vampire let his lips part, his fangs gleaming in the low light of a few candles. Geralt’s words caught in his throat and his heart-rate rose again. It was nearly frantic. Jaskier would have been worried, but that particular rhythm combined with the way Geralt had started to smell was really getting to his head. 

He allowed himself to give a single, territorial little growl before he rose onto his knees. The vampire placed one hand on either side of Geralt’s head and leaned down, brushing the tips of their noses together as he trapped his human quarry against a goosefeather pillow. “I dream of you as well, my pet. I dream of running my fingers through your soft white hair and listening as you read to me in that deep, rumbling voice.”

“Your Grace?”

“I dream,” Jaskier sighed, tracing his nose along Geralt’s jaw, “Of how delectable you smell when you’re happy. Of how caring you are when you’re worried. Of how you might react to sweet, glorious compliments being whispered in your ear as I hold you close and take you apart. I’ve had centuries of practice, dear heart, and I really am quite good.”

“Your Grace.” 

“I dream of touching you, Geralt. May I please touch you?” 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Gods, Geralt. When you call me that, it -” the vampire’s fangs lengthened again, pushing and straining towards his sweet human sacrifice, “- It really awakens the nature of a beast in me.”

“My apologies, Master.”

Jaskier groaned and leaned away, his hands covering his face to keep his fangs from finding Geralt’s neck on instinct. “That’s certainly not any better.” 

“Do you wish to drink from me, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. His voice was meek. Nervous. The vampire’s long-dead heart nearly cracked in spite of itself. 

The peasant had never referred to it as drinking before. Always feeding or supping. Geralt understood that he was a food source and kept his distance from the whole process by using such specific terminology for their activities. Yes, the human clearly enjoyed the endorphins Jaskier’s feeding process released throughout his body, and the inhibition-lowering side-effects of Jaskier’s vampiric presence had let a few specific terms of endearment slip through the human’s lips but…

This was different. This was Geralt offering himself up rather than accepting his status as an offering from the village. He was an equal participant, now. 

“Would you like it if I drank from you, my dear?”

“Yes,” Geralt admitted. His face was aflame with either shame or lust; Jaskier suspected that it was a strong combination of both. He pulled himself against the vampire and tossed his hair to the side, baring the pale column of his throat. His voice was breathy and a little higher than normal when he locked his gaze with Jaskier’s and whispered, “I’m all yours, Your Grace.”

The backs of the Viscount’s knuckles swept across the smooth expanse of skin and both men shuddered with anticipation. Jaskier curled around Geralt possessively and ran his icy lips down the side of the human’s neck to his pulse-point. The vampire nibbled teasingly for a moment, letting his teeth and tongue worry the skin to a warm, vibrant pink before placing the tips of his fangs down. As he pressed in, breaking through and tasting the first few delectable ruby droplets, Geralt moaned openly. 

His hand clenched in the material of Jaskier’s night-shirt and his eyes rolled back into his head. It was rapturous. It was ecstasy. And now he didn’t have to keep himself silent and resigned; he could react the way he’d wanted to for weeks as his Master drank deeply from the fount of his heart.

“Jaskier!” The hand that wasn’t the vampire’s silk night-shirt was grasping at the skin of his hip, digging his fingers into the cold, firm crease where Jaskier’s long torso met his legs. He needed to hold on to something. He needed an anchor to this mortal realm or he’d go floating away forever, lost to the pleasures of his soon-to-be lover. 

Jaskier removed his fangs from the human’s neck after another moment or two and slowly licked the wound to clean it. Geralt frowned and glanced up, his eyes bright and his face flushed.

“Done already, Your Grace?”

“Oh, Geralt,” the vampire purred, clambering to straddle the taller man’s hips. “I’m just getting started.”

[rotzaprachim]

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.) 

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

[rightsockjin]

Hi, can i request 21 and Yoongi please?

Here you go! I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Collage AU! Yoongi and you are in the same psychology class and he really can not stand you...

Rating: K+

Genre: FLuffY flufF Fluff... It’s fluff. but like a lil..

This was really fun to write and I can’t wait until I get to write the rest! Please send in an ask if you want to request a prompt! 

Prompt list

She’s just so obnoxious,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then stop talking to her,” Joon said with a shrug as he turned the page of his book.

Waves of frustration ran through him. He didn’t really think that Joon wasn’t looking at him. He knew he was overreacting but he needed to blow off steam.

“I can’t,” he groaned for what felt like the millionth time.

“Why?”

Questions.

That was what Joon was made up of.

Whats and whens and whys.

Yoongi, being the introvert he was, usually wasn’t fond of people like this but Kim Namjoon had been an exception.

He’d never tell him that though.

It was too fun to roll his eyes at his -

Fr-

Frien-

Fr-fr-

*cough* friend *cough*

He did just that before running a hand through his dark hair.

“If I had a 500 won for every time you ask a question-“

“You’d be rolling in money- yeah I know,” Joon said, still not looking up. Carefully, he highlighted a sentence.

Yoongi watched as the perfect yellow line appeared against the slightly beige page filled with poetry.

Namjoon was anal about things like his notes and books and writing.

Yoongi on the other hand, wrote like a kindergartener and didn’t give a single shit.

Still... It was kind of satisfying to watch him highlight words.

“Still, I don’t see why you keep in contact with her if she gets on your nerves.”

Yoongi scoffed.

How many times must he explain?

“Because!”

When he didn’t continue, Namjoon finally glanced up through his lashes as if this would be enough to egg him on to continue.

Yoongi raised his eyebrows, daring him to ask another question as he crossed his arms.

With an exasperated sigh, Namjoon grabbed a bookmark from his pence bag that was carefully coordinated by color and stuck it between the pages before he closed it and set it aside on the table they were sharing to study.

Study, being a loose explanation for their presence on campus since Yoongi had only set his multiple psychology books on the surface of the table and hasn’t touched them since he sat down half an hour ago.

“I‘ll bite,” Joon said, a smirk on his face as he straightened and pushed his glasses on the bridge of his tiny nose.

Yoongi smiled and waited for his Fr-Joon to ask him to continue.

Hey, he may be an introvert, but he had feelings and emotions that he wanted to get off his chest and Namjoon was a fantastic listener.

He never took his sarcasm to heart.

This is one of the many reasons that Yoongi liked...

Anyway-

“Because of what, Yoongi?”

A dopey smile graced Namjoon’s face as he rested his round cheeks on his knuckles.

This is what he was talking about.

Full attention bitch!

“Because,” Yoongi said once again as if it was an inconvenience to speak at all, “she’s the smartest person in my psyc classes! I refuse to acquaint myself with anyone who isn’t level with my intellect.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes tapping his long fingers against his dimples cheek.

“Big words for such a small man,” he said before breaking out into high pitched giggles.

“You know what isn’t small?” Yoongi challenged.

“Your ego-“

“My dick- awe come on man! Just once let me have my fun,” Yoongi groaned slamming a hand on one of the biggest and heaviest books he had.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the library aid glare in his direction.

He smiled and waved cheekily but shrunk into himself slightly before he turned back to Joon and his infuriating smile.

“You look like a big baby in those overalls,” Yoongi said when he couldn’t think of a good comeback.

Namjoon smiled and leaned back, his hands threaded in his hair.

“That’s the aesthetic I was going for.”

Stupid tree hugger.

Yoongi opened his mouth to say something else.

Probably something about his obnoxious habit of tapping his pens on the table when a chair was pulled up on his left quickly followed by one on his right.

Hoseok and Seokjin

Or as he liked to refer to them in his head-

Icarus and Narcissist

-weren’t exactly his friends rather, they were Namjoon’s friends but he tolerated them on most days as long as they didn’t come on too strong.

Today was one of those days that they got on his nerves instantly.

“Yo,” Hoseok half yelled, getting an annoyed “shh” from the library aid, his chair turned so the back was facing the table and his legs were spread on either side.

“How’s it going,” Seokjin added.

“Did your class end early?” Namjoon asked, looking down at his watch in confusion.

“Nah,” Hoseok answered looking at Seokjin mischievously.

“We snuck out of the lecture half way through.”

Namjoon scrunched his nose in distaste while shooting the library aid an awkward smile at Hoseok’s loudness.

“That is so irresponsible Hobi! Don’t expect me to stay up with you two all night for the next test like I did last time-“

“Oh don’t start with the lectures Namjoonie,” Hoseok groaned.

“We just snuck out of one, we clearly don’t want to listen to boring people drone on and on and on....”

“I hope you have fun failing your next exam.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hoseok said clearly unbothered, “you said that last time as well.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. He’d never told Namjoon but that Hoseok really struck a nerve with him.

He was always relying on Namjoon to make sure he passed his classes since all of them were in the same minor- music.

He never did anything on his own and in general, Yoongi couldn’t help but feel he was using him.

Maybe he was jealous.

But nope that wasn’t it Yoongi didn’t do feelings aside from annoyance.

“Whatever,” Joon said, turning his attention back to Yoongi, “anyway, can’t you just- I don’t know, talk to her minimally?”

“Talk to who?” Seokjin asked curiously.

“Her?” Hoseok added, his eyes wide.

“Does Yoongles have a girlfriend?”

“Thanks a lot,” Yoongi said, staring directly at Namjoon with a ‘look at what you did’ expression.

Namjoon shrugged and blushed.

That was another thing.

Namjoon didn’t have a single filter.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Yoongi clarifies.

“I have a nemeses,” he said, his fist clenching on the table and his eyebrows connecting.

A slight silence followed after that.

Then like dominos, Hoseok burst out laughing, closely followed by Jin and then finally by Namjoon.

Yoongi felt his cheeks warm as the boys raucously laughed. Hoseok slapping his leg, Namjoon covering his mouth and Seokjin rocking in his chair.

“Wha-well she is! She’s like... top of my class! It’s always between me and her and it’s gone to her head!”

“Ah- Uh- a nemesis?” Hoseok asked between explosive laughter.

“Or like arch-enemy,” Yoongi said with a thoughtful sigh, accepting his fate as the boys laughed louder.

Even Namjoon, who was just as anal about following the rules- which Yoongi guesses had something to do with the pretty Library aid was laughing his full belly laugh.

“An arch-enemy?” Seokjin asked for clarity.

Yoongi nodded.

“She’s like my mortal enemy,” he finished.

Yeah

That felt right.

It was a couple more seconds in which the aid glared in their direction and their laughter died down.

Yoongi waited patiently for them to quiet so he could continue. Might as well. They all knew now.

When they finally did, Namjoon noticed the way the aid was looking at them and blushed, hiding in his oversized hoodie.

“Don’t you think that’s a little over the top?” Seokjin asked, whipping a tear from the corner of his eye.

“No.” He answered simply.

And he wasn’t.

You were everything he couldn’t stand.

You were inquisitive like Namjoon.

You were overtly loud like Hoseok.

And you were as full of yourself as Seokjin.

And on top of that, you were a genius?

You had all of their worst qualities, and

He.

Couldn’t.

Stand.

You.

Namjoon cleared his throat then, drawing his attention back to the group.

He looked flummoxed.

“Maybe we should go eat or something... I’m starting to feel bad for the people studying.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok giggles looking in the direction that Namjoon kept glancing in.

“It has nothing to do with the death glares that glasses is giving us, right?”

He pointed over at the aid who was indeed shooting daggers in their directions

“No!” Namjoon said instantly.

“It’s just that the library is supposed to be a quiet place for studying-“

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist English boy,” Hoseok said.

Yoongi scoffed.

“The best you could come up with was English boy?”

“Well I’m not an English boy,” Hoseok answered dramatically swooning.

“Clearly,” Namjoon murmured, putting his stuff in his satchel.

Yoongi began to pack up as well. He really had planned on getting some reading done while he was hanging out with Joon but he quite obviously got side tracked.

He’d have to do it later.

“So where do we wanna eat, gang?” Hoseok asked, standing up.

“I think I’m gonna pass,” Yoongi said, realizing that he hadn’t started on the paper he was supposed to do yesterday either for his music theory class.

“Awe no,” Hoseok moaned grabbing Yoongi’s shoulders, “it’s all of us or none of us!”

Yoongi huffed and pushed his arms off of him, “then I guess it’s none of us. I have a shit ton of homework to do and you people distract me.”

Namjoon crossed his bag over his chest and squinted at him.

“But hyung,” Namjoon began, “you’re the one who asked to meet in the first place.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s really not that hard,” you said as you spread your perfect color coded notes all over the table that you and Yoongi were working on.

Then your computer

And your pens that were sorted by thickness and color.

And your textbooks.

When you were done, Yoongi only had about a quarter of the space you had. 

Given, he just had his laptop and a single notebook-

No pen though.

It was still rude how you had taken the entirety of the space available for BOTH of you.

“It’s rooted in the way that humans tend to identify with colors and pictures. We can’t help but to interpret art in a way that speaks to us which is why it’s so useful for therapy.”

“I know that,” Yoongi snapped with a roll of his eyes, “I just don’t know if it’s the most useful strategy when it comes to someone who’s never been in therapy before.”

He bit at his thumb in thought.

“Why wouldn’t it be? It would take a lot of pressure off of the psychologist and the patient so they don’t feel cornered into talking about their feelings.”

“Well what if the patient is uncomfortable with their art work? Or they have no interest in drawing or music? How would you go about that?”

Yeah.

Art therapy was great.

Honestly, that’s the branch that Yoongi wanted to study and had chosen the topic for that exact reason.

He just hadn’t expected you to choose it as well.

Now, he was trying-

And failing

-At trying to discredit the practice.

“You have them look or listen instead. Then they can just write what they feel. It’s simple Yoongi.”

He grunted, leaning back against his chair.

“Okay fine. Put that into the powerpoint,” he conceded.

“I will.”

You booted up your computer and he lost himself in the sound of the keys you pressed.

On his screen, he could see the shared PowerPoint and her cursor moving. He’d done maybe two of the slides on it because you were so over the top controlling that he’d given up trying to contribute.

“Hey Yoongi,” you said as you continued to type.

He peeked up at the sound of your voice from behind his screen.

“Can I ask you an uncomfortable question?”

Yoongi’s blood ran cold.

She seemed to take his lack of negation as confirmation.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

How long had he-

Had he-

D:

Wha-what?

Were you kidding?

Yoongi laughed. Obviously it was a joke.

But you stopped typing and looked over at Yoongi.

Your hands were folded on the table next to your notebook.

Your glasses rested on the tip of your nose.

Your bun was messy. Strands of hair framed your face.

The top button of your white shirt was undone.

You weren’t amused.

“Wait,” he leaned forward, slapping his hands on the table and leaning forward, “you’re not serious are you?”

With a single finger, you pushed the black frames up slowly.

Tiredly.

“I am.”

How could someone misread him so badly?

Yoongi took a deep breath.

“Y/N,” deep breath, “I am not in love with you.”

With a soft smile that sent his stomach in a frenzy and a scowl on his face you leaned forward.

“Has anyone ever told you that there is a fine line between love and hate?”

“That’s just a theory,” Yoongi said instantly leaning back. If that’s all you were going off of then you had no basis to your hypothesis.

“A theory grounded on the intensity of emotions and the predictability or lack thereof of human psyche.”

He scoffed.

Not Yoongi’s.

He only held disdain for you.

While he really hadn’t thought that you would notice his clear dislike of you, he was a little confused as to why you would think it would lead to him falling in love with you.

This wasn’t a romcom.

Right?

“Look, Y/N,” he chuckled, “the only feelings I have for you are-“

Stop.

Don’t say it.

“Contempt.”

You raised an eyebrow at that.

A pretty smile-

What? Where did that come from?

A smirk tugged at your lips.

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Yoongi couldn’t take it any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’d had enough.

ENOUGH.

You hadn’t spoken to him ever since your presentation.

And it was a great presentation!

He even spoke and everything!

People were shocked.

He was pretty sure almost everyone in that class thought he was mute.

He had even been extra nice right before so that you won’t give him a bad peer review.

So. *Inhale*

*exhale*

Why in the name of all that is holy did you suddenly decide to not speak to him or even so much as glance at him?

He walked into class that day and had been kind enough to save you a seat.

Out of the pure kindness of his heart mind you.

Kindness that he displayed for no one.

And yet you had bypassed him entirely and sat way in the back without so much as a friendly hand wave.

What a bit-

*tire screech*

In the end, he supposed it didn’t matter.

You’d been a pain in his side since you both started your degrees and it would be much easier to destroy you if you weren’t friendly.

Fine.

Fine.

Okay.

Good.

If it was a war you wanted it was a war you would get.

…

…

...

....but why hadn’t you talked to him?

Had he hurt your feelings?

Maybe he shouldn’t have told you that he hated you.

Well not that he hated you more like he just thought you were beneath him or something like...

He surmised that girls tended not to like when men told them they hated them.

He’d been rude.

But it wasn’t his fault...

After all, isn’t it rude to assume someone is in love with you?

Conceded at the very least.

He knew you were full of yourself, what with your hanging mirror key chain and selfie studded phone case, but that was just too far.

To assume that because someone didn’t like you...

They were in love with you?

You were clearly in the wrong field.

Yoongi must have scoffed out loud because Hoseok, whom had been the first of the Fr-

*gag*

Of the boys to show up, looked up from his pizza menu quizzically.

“What’s on your mind Yoongles?”

“For the millionth time, Hoseok-”

“I doubt it’s been a million times-”

“Please,” he sighed, “don’t call me Yoongles. My name is Yoongi... call me hyung if you want-”

Hoseok made a high pitched noise somewhere in the back of his throat and put a hand over his chest.

“I thought you would never ask!”

He launched himself across the table and wrapped his arms around his neck, his cheek pressed against him.

“Tha’usen’t a’question...”

it was then that two sets of footsteps neared their table near the back and Yoongi felt his cheeks burn.

“Get off me,” he said in a monotone voice, using his palm to push Hoseok’s face off of his.

Joon and Seokjin stood side by side watching the two sitting men with confusion written all over their faces.

“Okay who died,” Jin asked looking at Hoseok’s now down cast expression.

“My Love for Yoongi hyung,” he said melodramatically.

Yoongi rolled his eyes and scooted towards the end of the booth so Joon or Jin could slide in.

It was Jin that sat next to him.

Joon slid into the opposite side only for Hoseok to wrap himself around his strong arms.

“You love me don’t you Namjoonie?”

“Sure,” Namjoon said, patting his friend’s head.

Hoseok shot Yoongi a smug glare as if he was meant to be hurt by his actions but he couldn’t care less.

He shrugged.

Clearly not taking kindly to being ignored, Hoseok cleared his throat

“Keep your balls blue Hyung...”

Namjoon scrunched up his whole face and pulled his arm from Hoseok’s grasp.

“Dude,” he said, “we’re about to eat!”

“Where did that even come from,” Seokjin questioned, looking Yoongi up and down as if the answer was written on him.

“I have no idea,” Yoongi answered with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

“Yoongi hyung’s been muttering about that girl in his class for the last 10 minutes. My guess is he’s frustrated.”

Joon and Jin turned to look at Yoongi who looked at Hoseok disgustedly.

“How many times do I have to say that I DON’T like her?”

The three men blinked at him in confusion.

“When have you ever had to clarify that?” Namjoon asked with his eyes wide.

?

Ha-hadn’t he?

Yoongi realized his mistake.

He’d told you that.

Not the guys.

Well Fuck.

“I just meant that I shouldn’t have to clarify that.” Yoongi said, trying to ignore Seokjin and Hoseok’s excited looks.

“Don’t push my buttons,” he warned just as a waitress approached with a fake smile and tired eyes.

“We won’t,” Jin assured making Yoongi relax slightly.

Then under his breath

“Looks like someone else already is.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Y/N,” Yoongi yelled after you as you hurried out of class.

You had a stack of books in your arms and your bag seemed extra heavy.

Your hair was pulled up and out of your face again.

You seemed to be in a hurry.

You didn’t stop. Maybe you hadn’t heard him.

He called out to you again but you seemed to be walking faster.

He sped up.

So did you.

“Y/N!”

But you didn’t slow and then you got lost in the crowd.

Yoongi stood in the middle of the sidewalk totally confused.

With a sigh, he walked back to his car and drove home for the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yoongi grabbed your wrist loosely so that you could pull out of his hold if you wanted.

He didn’t wanna like...

Freak you out or something.

To his surprise, you didn’t pull away.

You stopped walking.

He had a whole speech planned out.

He’d written questions

He had his journal in his hand color coded and everything!

At Namjoon’s suggestion.

So why is it that now that he was looking into your eyes that he froze?

“Yes?” You asked with the most monotone expression he’d ever seen.

He opened and closed his mouth in confusion.

He looked like a fish out of water.

Why was he so thirsty?

He felt like he’d eaten a whole box of saltines.

As he looked at you he realized...

Had you always been this pretty?

He blushed profusely.

He let go of your hand.

He said nothing.

And now HE took off in the opposite direction.

See...

Yoongi wasn’t used to feelings.

As it was he didn’t even like the idea of calling the boys his...

Fr-

Frie-

*clearing throat* FrIEndS.

He’d never really had friends before anyway and he’d been just fine.

Feelings weren’t part of the equation ever.

It was business.

They were in similar classes and that was that.

So why did his hate for you, suddenly not feel so bad?

So heavy?

Why did Yoongi feel like he could fly?

Without thinking, he must have made it to the dorms because the next thing he remembered, he was standing before Seokjin’s door panting and sweating.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see both Joon and Hobi-

Hoseok

-in the room.

They looked at him expectantly.

Like they already knew what he was going to say.

But they couldn’t know.

Though... Namjoon was highly receptive. He had a way of reading Yoongi that he’d never considered and was always ready to listen. He’d always made time for him even when his perfectly made schedule didn’t match Yoongi’s request to meet up.

Hoseok smiles at him from one of the beds. His body was stretched out across Joon’s lap.

There was a little sun sticker on his nose and two stars on his forehead.

Yoongi couldn’t help but smile back.

Hoseok may be annoying but he sure as hell knew how to make Yoongi smile and forget his current situation.

“Yoongi?” Seokjin asked.

“Did you...” with wide surprised eyes, “run here???”

His perfect nose twitched in concern.

“Hey hyung,” Yoongi said with a tiny bow.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he answered, clearly surprised at Yoongi’s honorific.

He opened the door wider and let the flushed man in.

The room was small.

It felt cramped with all four of them in there.

Especially with Namjoon’s long legs but no one mentioned it.

“Is something wrong hyung,” Namjoon asked with concern on his features.

Ugh. Feelings.

“I Uh- no...”

“You know,” Jin began closing the door and sitting on the bed opposite Joon and Hobi-

Hoseok.

“For a psychology major you really don’t do a great job of analyzing your own feelings.”

...

He had a point.

How was Yoongi supposed to help other people when he couldn’t even help himself emotionally?

He cleared his throat, realizing that they were all looking at him expectantly.

“This is a safe place hyung,” Hoseok said with a smile, sitting up as if this made it more official.

Yoongi has to admit...

his... friends...made him feel safe.

With a deep, pained breath, Yoongi began.

“You guys know that girl I’m always complaining about?”

“Your mortal enemy ™️ ?” Hoseok asked excitedly.

Like a puppy.

A cute puppy.

Yoongi smiled.

“Y/N... yeah... uh she’s been ignoring me lately.”

Seokjin places a hand on his shoulder so he would look at him.

“What did you do?”

Yoongi scoffed

“No-nothing! I didn’t... okay well I did tell her I didn’t really like her but I mean- it’s not like it was news? Isn’t it obvious I don’t like her?”

The room was dead silent.

Yoongi expected his friends-

Hey that was getting easier to think about-

-to instantly say that it was clear as day that he hated your guts.

Instead, all the boys, his friends, avoided his gaze.

“Isn’t it?” He pressed in concern.

“Hyung,” Namjoon began with a pained expression, “if I'm being honest... I always thought you had a crush on her.”

Wait what?

“Yeah,” Hobi joined in as soon as he realized he didn’t have to be the one to break the ice, “you’re always saying how intelligent she is. How you only associate yourself with her. Damn you barely associate yourself with us! The fact you want to speak with her is kind of huge!”

“But... but I- No! That’s only because I need someone to be partners with in class!”

“Then why,” Seokjin cut in, his voice firm, as if he had the winning argument and he knew it, “do you insist on talking to her outside of class all of a sudden?”

Yoongi was ready.

He opened his mouth ready to explain exactly why he wanted to speak with her after class when-

He had nothing.

Not one thing.

There should be no reason for him to want to speak with you outside of class.

He should only be putting up with your smart... cute...-

*bleh*

mouth in class.

He closed his mouth and looked down at his thighs.

“Dude... have you ever considered that maybe... just maybe... you hate her so much because you’re attracted to her?”

Yoongi looked over at Namjoon. His eyes were soft. It was just a question.

Namjoon would have made a good psychologist.

Yoongi thought back to all those times he’d been irrationally angry

Like that time he’d gotten a lower grade than you by one mark.

Or that time you had corrected him in front of the entire class when he had answered a question in class.

Or even recently, worse still, when you began to ignore him.

Under the anger were other feelings.

Pride.

Surprise in like a good way.

Hurt...

“Wait let me get this straight,” Yoongi said as his heart raced.

The boys waited with baited breath.

“You’re telling me that you think I’ve fallen in love with my self professed mortal enemy?”

Hoseok blinked at him then from out of nowhere, he pulled out a sticker sheet and peeled one off.

He aggressively placed what looked like a smiley face on his forehead.

“Gold star for hyung!”

“That’s not a star Hobi,” Namjoon said with a roll of his eyes.

“Well I don’t have any more stars! I only have smiley faces!”

Yoongi groaned, reaching up to pull the sticker off but one pleading look from Hoseok and he retreated.

Hobi smiled.

“ I don’t know if you’re in love per se... I think maybe you have a crush on her? It’s just always felt like behind all your complaining there was-“

“Love,” Hoseok interrupted.

Namjoon glared at him turning to look at him.

He was met with a little tree sticker on his nose.

Namjoon stared at it surprised and effectively shut up.

“Yoongi hyung’s in love,” Hoseok singsonged.

Yoongi felt his cheeks reddened deeply. He held his face in his hands to cover it up but his ears were a five away.

“Look how red he is!” Jin said beside him.

“Oh my God it’s true!” Hoseok said with a gasp.

“Do you really like her Yoongi?” Namjoon asked.

This was what hell was made of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was later that same day that you guys had class together again.

This time, Yoongi knew what he had to do.

When time was called for the class to be dismissed, Yoongi was prepared. He packed everything quickly and ran after you without calling out your name.

This way you couldn’t run.

Was that creepy?

That sounded creepy.

Anyway.

He tapped your shoulder and as if in slow motion you turned.

A pink aura surrounded you.

Your eyes sparkled.

Wow... you’re really pretty.

AND YOU WERE SPEAKING TO HIM.

Focus Min Yoongi!

“Wh-what?”

Smooth Casanova.

“I asked what you wanted.” You answered with a concerned expression.

“Oh... right,” Yoongi said, rolling his shoulders back and taking a deep breath.

“I just wanted to apologize.”

You raised your eyebrows,

Yoongi?

Apologize?

“For what?”

“For... for telling you I dislike you.”

“If I remember correctly, you mentioned contempt.” You said, your arms crossed but you didn’t seem mad. Just curious.

“Right. Well it was wrong of me to say. You are very smart and capable if it wasn’t obvious from our perfect score on the presentation.” He complimented

“Right, yeah, I know,” you said.

Silence.

“Well if that’s it then I have to go.”

Yoongi reached out for you, grabbing your hand with his much bigger one.

A fierce blush blossomed across his cheeks when u didn’t pull away.

It felt nice to hold your hand.

“I... I also wanted to say that...” this was it.

This was the movement everything changed.

Do or die.

Fight or flight!

“Yes?”

You knew.

He could tell in the way you smiled at him.

The way you raised a perfect eyebrow.

You knew.

It had come down to this.

Yoongi thought back to that day when you had first proposed the idea that he might well be in love with you.

And then he wondered…

Had you been ignoring him…

To prove a point?

It was a fact, psychologically, that distance made the heart grow fonder.

It wasn’t just a saying.

It was a genuine way for couples to appreciate what they had.

A common practice suggested by therapist.

Had you...had you just forced him to come to terms with his-

He cleared his throat.

“You... you were right... about um... your-your theory.”

He couldn’t look at you.

Yoongi was never one to show his true feelings.

Did he even have any?

...

But damn it they were bursting for his every pore at that moment.

He felt you take a step closer to him.

His heart stopped.

He looked up at you slightly.

You had a pleasant smile on your face.

You tightened your grip on his hand.

Your face was getting closer.

His blood pumped through his veins at inhuman speeds.

He could smell your summery perfume.

Your lips were inches away.

Yoongi has kissed girls before.

But something about the prospect of kissing you had him feeling like it was his first kiss all over again.

His eyes fluttered closed.

He puckered his lips.

But the kiss never came.

He opened his eyes only to see your face, still very close.

A smile on your mouth.

The mouth he thought should have been on his.

You reached up with your free hand and plucked something from his forehead.

You showed it to him.

The sticker.

Hoseok’s smiley face.

“You had this on your forehead,” you clarified.

He was mortified.

He’d forgotten...

“My friend....”

Friend.

:)

“My friend put it on me earlier and I guess I forgot about it....”

You shrugged, placing the sticker on his cheek instead.

“Cute,” you said before you got on your toes and placed a soft peck on the places you’d set the sticker.

How-

Did you just-

Was that-

You kissed-

“Do you maybe wanna get an ice cream? We can talk more if you’d like?”

Yoongi nodded dumbly, letting you lead the way.

You smiled up at him.

He smiled down at you.

He reached up and touched the sticker with tender fingers.

He’d have to thank Hoseok later.

Yoongi fucking loved stickers.

Masterllist

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part Two of ??)

Hello again! I'm back with the second installment of my new series, Finding You, which was previously Untitled.  If you want to be tagged when I update this series, just comment below :)

 Part One Link

In this part, we finally get to Satan and what he's been doing during all this. It's not really a happy chapter. You have been warned.

I think it's important to note that I am American. In this part, there is a funeral. Since I don't know much about other cultures or religions way of holding funerals, I just wrote what I know (and that's very little actually. I've only been to two full funerals. I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have). Feel free to change the story up in your head to match your own funerary customs.

As always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated and help me endure the torture that is typing up this story from my notebook 😒 I also tried to make sure the editing on here was good. Any DM's for typos or things that didn't make sense are appreciated so I can fix them (please be kind though 🙂 ). I did write some of the funeral disjointed on purpose, trying to recreate how I was feeling when I attended the funerals I did.

Tags (for you lovely people <3 ): @obey-me-trashshshshsh, @naimena

F! MC/ Satan

Word count: 3,195

Warnings/triggers: ANGST!, description of funeral, loosing someone dear to you, some violence at the end though nothing too graphic (he is the avatar of wrath after all)

Satan had felt when Mc died. His pact mark had begun to glow and heat up. A terrible rending feeling in his chest, then… Nothing. He couldn’t move, fear completely paralyzing him. No, it couldn’t be…

Then he heard Mammon scream. Then Asmo. Then Levi. Soon, the whole House of Lamentation was filled with wailing. Satan scrambled for his D.D.D, hurriedly dialing Mc. No, no, no, no, no. He had just talked to her. She’d been fine.

“Hi! This is Mc. I can’t get to the phone-”

“No… No, no, no, NO!” Satan screamed, throwing his phone at the wall. Satan sunk to his knees in a sobbing heap.

The brothers never got an answer to what exactly had happened to Mc. Diavolo had confirmed she had passed, but he couldn’t get any details since she hadn’t been sent to the Devildom. He had managed to find out when and where the funeral would be, if they wanted to go. They would only be able to attend the graveside service though, since the viewing was being held in a church. 

Each brother attended the graveside service. Satan stood stoically as the casket was brought out of the hearse. He was wondering if he would be able to get Asmo to charm everyone in attendance so he’d be able to see her face one last time, when he felt his brothers all shifting around uncomfortably. He realized the religious figure he’d tuned out was quoting scripture at the congregation, promises that Mc was now in the hands of God. He decided to tune him out again. Then the casket was being lowered. He had to be physically restrained from going out and pulling her out as the first fistfuls of dirt were being thrown on the casket. How could they do that to her? A voice murmured a reminder that she was gone, and they were just saying goodbye. Well, he needed to say goodbye too. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Next thing Satan knew, he was at the corner of the grave, a flower he’d had a death grip on since they had started out from the Devildom in his hand. Her favorite. A shiny wood box met his eyes from 6 feet below. Was she really there? He couldn’t feel her presence from his pact mark. Where was she? When was he going to wake up?

The other demon lords watched their brother loose the fight with his emotions. He sobbed, falling on his haunches. Six hands found a part of Satan to touch, tears in their eyes as well.

“It’s time ta let ‘er go,” Mammon’s stuffy voice came from next to him. Satan looked over to find Mammon had removed his sunglasses. His eyes and face were wet.

“I… I don’t think I can,” Satan stated, tears falling freely.

“I know. I know,” Mammon said, pulling his brother in for a hug. Each of the rest of the brothers joined in the hug, pulling the fourth and second born up with them. After a bit, they all let go, moving forward to give Mc their own token and say their last words. When Belphie had finished, Lucifer put his hand on Satan’s shoulder.

“Mc’s waiting for her flower,” Lucifer said, gesturing towards the grave. Satan nodded, and walked forward. He fiddled with the stem for a second, trying to find the words to say, “Mc… Huh, I don’t actually know what to say… I guess, I… I thought I’d find some way to be with you forever. I never thought… I’ve never felt anything like you before Mc, and I don’t think I ever will again… Please… Please, if it’s possible, come back to me. Please,” he uttered as he dropped the flower onto the casket, and walked back to his brothers. He knew everyone was looking at him, confused and curious through their sorrow. They all stayed until the end of the funeral, when Satan turned to Lucifer, “I think it might be time to go.”

“If you’re sure, that would probably be the smartest course of action,” Lucifer nodded, the humans looking questioningly at the demons. The religious man from earlier was actually making his way towards them.

“I’ll visit her later when there aren’t so many people around,” Satan stated as he started walking. The brothers exchanged looks before following him.

The next couple months were quiet at the House of Lamentation. The brothers did the bare minimum required to keep the household going. They were all absent from RAD and Lucifer even took some time off from the endless amount of paperwork he usually did, to grieve. Mc may have been dating Satan, but the rest of the brothers loved her too, and missed her greatly. The only time the brother’s saw Satan was when he was raiding the fridge, finally giving into his stomach pleading for food. He still managed to look somewhat put together, though his eyes were dead and haunted. He had retreated so far into his mind if one of them managed to get him to acknowledge their presence they counted it as a win. He was a shell of himself, and everyone was worried.

Time marches on though, and life slowly returned to normal. One day, Lucifer had gone to RAD and come home with some random paperwork that needed to be done. Another, Asmo was going out to update his wardrobe because his was terribly behind the trends. Each brother found their own way of coping. Beel eventually asked if they could all have family dinner again. They all actually made an appearance, though Satan left once he was done eating.

Though he wasn’t doing well, Satan had been visiting Mc’s grave at least once a week if not more. Lucifer had granted him access to the portal indefinitely, a gesture of kindness that did not go unnoticed. At first he just cried quietly at her grave, not able to produce a coherent sentence. It slowly evolved into him reading her her favorite books or some snatch of poetry that reminded him of her. Eventually he was able to talk freely as he once had. Sometimes it was a mixture of the three. His brothers never saw him cry though. Since Mc had been the only one that seemed to truly understand his feelings, she was the only one allowed to see him cry. Through this self therapy, Satan started to heal. He started sitting in the common room with his brothers in the evening, or snorting at some joke that had been thrown around the table at dinner.

As the years passed, Satan would still visit Mc’s grave, though the frequency dropped. He slowly learned to deal with his sorrow, just like he had with love when he’d first fallen for Mc. It was much harder, his wrath often informing his depression. She became his support again, even if she wasn’t able to respond to help him through his feelings. He always visited on her birthday, bringing her a bouquet of flowers and some small piece of literature, art or playing her some music.

One year, while reading her some Shakespeare, someone came up behind him, “She appreciates it. I know she does.”

Satan stopped reading instantly, whipping around to see a woman who looked quite a lot like Mc, “Excuse me?”

“Coming to see her every year. You have great taste in art by the way,” the woman said, sitting down besides Satan, looking fondly but sadly at the headstone.

“Um, thank you. May I ask who you are?”

“Only if I can ask you the same thing,” the woman responded, smiling at him wryly. The look was so similar to one Mc would give him, he found himself instantly trusting this woman, “I’m S… Stan,” he answered, giving the nickname Mc come up with, when he had asked if he’d ever be able to meet her family. She’d laughed when she'd thought of it, saying she could never introduce him as Satan.

“Stan? I was wondering. She met you when she took that trip out of the country right?”

“Yeah… Did she tell you about me?”

“Oh, you want me to remember that far back? Hmm… I seem to remember her talking about how smart you are, “She chuckled, her eyes far away, “I remember one time, I went in to talk to her and she was furiously reading some book. When I asked what she was reading she told me she couldn’t talk to me right then, needing to catch up to where you were in the story. It was a silly little moment, but she looked so determined… I do know she was in love with you. Though she only really told me about you shortly before she died, I remember the look in her eyes when she talked about you. Telling me about how drawn she was the moment she laid eyes on you. You know what a romantic she was. As her Mother, you can guess how excited I was to meet you, especially after watching her get her heart broken before... You’re exactly her type, you know. Tall, blonde, smart. She was even thinking of introducing you to us. Then it happened.”

Satan didn’t realize the tears were flowing until she looked over and wiped a tear away. She continued, “I was disappointed when I didn’t see anyone that matched your description during the viewing. I don't know what kept you, but I am glad you made it for the casket lowering. I was surprised to see your brothers though, if that's who they were. You all look so different… Anyways, I’m sure she would've loved the intrigue you brought to her service. A handsome stranger, distraught at the thought of life without her. She always did love big, dramatic displays of affection.”

“You remember me from the funeral?”

“Who could forget? It became a topic of conversation in our family once we could all talk about her without crying. Who was that blonde guy? Why wasn’t he at the viewing? Who were the other men he was with? Did she secretly get married while she was out of the country? So many theories, each one more ludicrous then the last. It seems her best friend and I were the only ones to connect the dots as to your identity.”

“Ah. I’m a little embarrassed now,” Satan admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t be. I was extremely bitter after the funeral for a long time. How could my beautiful daughter be taken away from me? Parents were never meant to outlive their kids. I’ve never understood the reason people take photographs at funerals. Most of the time, there’s so much makeup caked onto the body they’re almost unrecognizable. There’s a photo of you from the funeral I actually saved though. You’re looking at the casket with such a look of longing and loss, just waiting for her to come back to you. That photo actually brought me a lot of peace after she was gone. Your look perfectly encapsulated how I felt at the time. It also helped me to know she was able to know that much love before she left. I never want you to feel embarrassed for showing that kind of love to my daughter.”

" She is and always will be the only one for me.”

Mc’s mother laughed, “Oh, you’re still young and quite handsome. You’ll find someone else. In fact, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day from the first time I saw you. You must’ve made some kind of deal with the devil,” she joked.

“Ah. Very funny. Yes. A deal with the devil. Haha.”

Mc's mother looked at him, slightly concerned, "Well, it seems I've made things awkward. I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to leave on my behalf,” Satan protested.

“It’s alright. I live close by, and I come and visit fairly often. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime. Good night, Stan”

“Good night, and… thank you.”

Mc’s mother smiled at him and walked away.

“Well, Mc, I guess I have your mother’s approval now,” Satan joked, turning back to his Shakespeare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Remind me why we’re here again,” Satan said, only slightly interested in the antics Mammon was trying to drag him into.

“Tryin’ to get some sucker… er, customer ta part with their Grimm, obviously,” Mammon explained, leaning back in his chair and turning to face Satan and Belphie.

“What does that have to do with us?” Belphie mumbled, eyes more closed than open.

“Well, everythin’! You two are super smart, so I need ya ta…” As Mammon continued talking, Satan wondered, not for the first time, if Mammon actually ever intended to make money with his schemes, or if he had simply found a way to work through his sin without causing too many problems. He had to understand how likely his plans were to fail… Right?

A bump on his shoulder announced Belphie had fallen asleep. Since Mc had helped him work through some of the trauma he had held onto since Lilith’s death, Belphie had gotten comfortable with his brothers again, growing especially close with Satan, their mutual dislike of Lucifer giving them something to bond over. When Mc had died, Satan had found Belphie to be the most supportive of his brothers. Though they'll lost had lost Lilith, Satan had found Belphie the most sympathetic to what he was going through.

“Oi! Listen when I’m talkin’ ta ya! Ya both younger than me, so you shouldn't really show me more respect.”

Belphie lifted his head, and rolled his eyes, “Mammon, do you really want me to do you a favor? How about this? Maybe, don’t explain how you’re going to con people in front of those you want to con.”

Mammon looked around worriedly, finally noticing the glares he was getting, before rounding on Belphie, “I was just explainin’ the plan ta ya and Satan cuz ya both asked again! If ya didn’ wan’ an explanation, ya shouldn’ have asked!”

Belphie was about to retort, when he got a self satisfying smirk, “Oh, dearest big brother, looks like you’ve got your first customer.”

Mammon went pale, turning around slowly to find a demon about as tall as Lucifer staring Mammon down, obviously angry.

Very interested in how Mammon was going to worm his way out of this one, Satan turned to say something to Belphie when he caught sight of a familiar hat. 

“Belphie, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn’t that Luke?”

“Hmm? You mean the chihuahua?... Oh, I think it is. Why do you suppose he’s here? I never heard we were getting any visitor."

"It's a little terrifying just how much you know. You're like Asmo that way."

"It's not my fault everyone just assumes I'm sleeping while they're talking."

"Belphie, you know enough, I think you store information while you're asleep."

"Huh… I'd never thought of that before… Who’s that other angel with him?”

“I don’t know… She kinda looks familiar though, don’t you think?”

Belphie looked over at him, arching an eyebrow, “Do you know any angels younger than Luke?”

“Well, no, but… She just looks so familiar.”

“I guess… Hey, you’re missing Mammon squirm.”

“You watch and enjoy. I’m going to go talk to them,” Satan said, clearly distracted, as he got up out of his seat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a large body planted itself in front of Satan. The demon was tall, but so was Satan. He was able to look him right in the eyes.

“What’s it to you?”

“You’re with the guy that was going to scam us right?”

“You were actually going to fall for his scheme? Really? Well, the first step to getting the help you need is admitting you have a problem. Now, move. I’ve got places to be.”

“Not so fast Princess. You’re not getting away that easy,” the demon put out his hand and grabbed Satan’s shirt.

Satan looked down at the offending hand, and then at the demon, his horns already starting to sprout, “I’d suggest you unhand me if you want to keep your kneecaps.”

The demon laughed, a cocky smile on his face, “Ya think just cuz you’re an elite ya can take me? What makes you so special huh? Ya just think ya so great, just because ya pretty. Am I right?”

The rest of Satan’s demon form appeared, his eyes glowing, a menacing aura surrounding him, “No. I know I can take you because I’m the Avatar of Wrath. Maybe, if you weren’t such a dunce you’d have noticed that,” and with that Satan grabbed his hand in a bone crushing grip. The demon started yowling, trying to twist out of his grasp. It only made Satan increase the pressure. He leaned in right next to the demon’s ear, “Next time you pick a fight, understand who you’re dealing with first.”

He swept the demon’s legs out from under him, and put him in a wrist lock submission hold. The demon was now yelling for mercy, desperately trying to break Satan’s hold. Satan looked around to see if he could still see Luke, but realized quickly that wasn’t going to be possible. Both of his brother’s were currently dismantling whatever demon had decided to pick a fight with them. The rest of the area had erupted into chaos, most demon’s running away. No one wanted to be around when one of the Avatar’s were fighting, much less three! A couple idiots were trying to get in on their fight though.

Sighing, Satan leaned down again, “Well, well, well. Looks like you’re losing your kneecaps today.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satan muttered to himself, picking up bits of trash that had been left by the fleeing demons. Because of his involvement in the fight, he had to clean up the entire park. Trying to explain to Lucifer he'd been trying to walk away apparently didn't help when you'd put five demons in the hospital before he'd shown up to stop you.

“Well, Lucifer, if you could’ve just kept your cool, you’d still be prancing around with Simeon and Michael up in the Celestial Realm, making friendship bracelets, painting each other little rocks and braiding each other’s hair as you giggle about how… Huh?” Satan crouched down, noticing a small foot peeking out from a pile of leaves. Moving around to the other side of the pile, he saw it was the small angel that had been with Luke.

Up close, the feeling he'd met her before was even stronger. She looked so familiar, but he knew he’d never seen her before. The youngest angel he’d ever met was Luke. Maybe she was from the foggy memories of Lucifer’s he still had? That was forever ago though. She should've grown up quite a bit by now...

His musings were interrupted as the small angel moving. She winced as she sat up, holding her head, “Wha… What happened? Luke? Where are you?, then noticing Satan, “Oh, hello there. I’m sorry, but could you help me find my big brother?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part Three Link

[rabdoidal]

are there any other podcasts youd recommend? im caught up on critical role & magnus archives and want more good fiction thats not rigidly hetero

as always ill shamelessly plug my gay podcast artificial ghost radio, but its not fiction based - these ones are! these are just from my personal library but theres plenty out there, but im mainly putting down ones you’d like based off CR and TMA

The Penumbra Podcast (sci-fi, fantasy)

There are two main universes with many different linear story arcs within each: Juno Steel and the Second Citadel. Juno Steel is a neo-noir set on Mars and focuses on Juno Steel, a private eye. If you like being sad, being gay and doing crimes, its for you. The Second Citadel is a fantasy setting following several different knights, trackers, scientists, and monsters and their experiences living in a not-so accepting world. If you like being sad, being gay and high fantasy bullshit, its for you.

Wolf 359 (comedy, drama, thriller, sci-fi)

Space crew full of unlikely characters trying their best to keep their ship from falling apart with a roll of tape and hope. Includes some horror and enough found family to kick your ass in half. Very emotionally distressing, but it’s the best in its genre - you can’t find a better space podcast that gets you like Wolf 359 does.

The Bright Sessions (sci-fi, drama, slice of life)

A therapist records parts of her sessions with super-powered people, helping them deal with mental illness, sexuality, and other problems while also helping with controlling their powers through mindfulness. It’s a super engaging and emotional podcast, and I only started it recently! 

EOS 10 (comedy, medical drama, sci-fi)

Another set in the future, another set in space. The podcast follows Ryan Dalias as he begins working as a doctor on a big-ass space hub, while also helping their head surgeon get sober. Oh, also there’s space pirates, bounty hunters, dimension and time travel, and evil organisations trying to fuck up Ryan’s day at every turn 

Welcome to Night Vale (comedy, horror)

A classic! My first podcast! It’s all a broadcast of a radio host (Cecil) in a small desert community somewhere in America that is full of the strange, cryptic and supernatural. It all reads more like poetry than prose in times - people die but they get better. Its almost like if a town actually existed like how a deranged conspiracy theorist thinks it does; all their theories are correct. 

Alice Isn’t Dead (thriller, horror, drama)

My favorite of the night vale presents podcasts; a woman quits her job to become a truck driver looking for her missing wife, who she assumed had died. Similarly to WTNV, it sounds very poetic and beautiful at times, but it is horrific, and terrifying, and beautiful. I can’t describe it any more or it’d spoil the whole thing.

Within the Wires (drama, sci-fi, dystopia)

Yes, half of these are night vale presents podcasts. Within the Wires has a few seasons now that are all different stories within the same universe; a society/world reformed after a big calamity/war that is supposed to be perfect, but the podcast follows the stories of those that can’t exist within the system (I’m being vague because everything is a spoiler). The first season is formatted like relaxation/meditation tapes found in an institution, the second is a series of guided museum tours. I highly recommend it if you like vague endings, being sad, but love being gay even more.

The Orbiting Human Circus of The Air (drama, comedy, magical but in a Christmas miracle way not in a Harry Potter way)

So the guy that wrote Hedwig and the Angry Inch and the lead singer/songwriter for the Music Tapes made a podcast set in turn of the century France about a janitor that dreams of being a radio host, but is painfully clumsy and awkward. The podcast features his dialogues as well as excerpts of the radio show The Orbiting Human Circus of The Air that is being broadcasted in a ballroom at the top of the Eiffel tower, where the janitor also works. It’s cheesy, its over the top, its theatrical, and its VERY holiday appropriate this month!

King Falls AM (comedy, sci-fi, found family)

I know we talk about found family a lot in this bitch but the two AM radio hosts in this podcast say “you’re like a brother to me, i love you” in almost every episode. It’s set in a small town, two people doing a radio show together and dealing with the weird people that live in King Falls. Ben is a local and Sammy just moved there, so he has trouble adjusting to the ghosts, werewolves and aliens.

[inkabelledesigns]

Poem 16: Vision

Folks, this was the most ambitious poem I’ve done yet. Before I talk any more, I’d like to give a huge shoutout and thank you to my buddy Steve, you can find on Twitter and YouTube. He’s an incredibly skilled voice actor who handled Joey, Bendy, and Boris here, and it was a treat to do this with him. Really this is more of an audio skit than it is a poem, but hey, there is a poem in it, so it counts enough for me. Hope you enjoy it!

That tape in Joey’s office in Chapter 5 has always intrigued me. I would love to see what went down in that room when he called Susie back, so I wrote my version of those events here. To clarify one detail: the toons being in there is a bit confusing if you’re not familiar with my fic, Searching the Depths. One of the details I’ve included in my interpretation of the studio is that there is a cartoon dimension and the reality known as Earth where our human characters live. Cartoons can see what’s going on over on Earth through images that include their faces, kind of like how we theorized the ink demon can see through the Bendy cutouts when Chapter 3 first dropped. It’s a really fun concept to play with. At the end of this sequence, Susie and Joey can’t hear the toons. The toons can see everything happening in Joey’s office because their pictures are up in there, and of course they’re concerned now that they know what his plans are. It’s a delicious and twisted scenario.

And now, credits!

Sound Effects/Music (Creative Commons 0): https://freesound.org/people/16H_Pans... https://freesound.org/people/o_ciz/so... https://freesound.org/people/Jack_Has... https://freesound.org/people/hitmount... I Knew a Guy by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song... License: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/b... https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song...

His Dreams, Tunneled Vision

By: Kat Alyst

Twisted Alice: Your preaching was impressive earlier, Poet. Absurd, but impressive. But I feel you could use an example to drive your point home. You want to talk about deception? Well I have a story for you. One I don’t get to tell very often. 

Poet: You do? Oh I’m dying to hear this, miss. 

-Flashback-

Joey: Ah, Miss Campbell, so lovely to have you here.

Susie: Oh cut it out. You’d better have a good reason for calling me here Joey.

Joey: I do my dear, I promise. Cross my heart. Please, have a seat won’t you? 

-sound of pulling out a chair, footsteps hit the floor as he circles around her-

Susie: -sighs- So what’s this all about huhn? Finally realized your new “angel” isn’t so “heaven sent”?

Joey: As a matter of fact, I have. Susie, understand something, she was never intended to replace you. Had you only given me time to explain before, we wouldn’t be here now. 

Susie: Explain what? You dropped me faster than a hot pot lid. I shouldn’t be gracing you with this meeting at all.

Joey: And yet, here you are. 

-pound on desk-

Susie: -lets out a small noise of surprise-

Joey: Tell me, Miss Campbell, after playing Alice for so long, what’s the most important thing about her character?

Susie: ...I’m not sure I follow.

Joey: Well think about it. Work through it for a moment. Humor me!

Susie: Well...the tamber and the pitch are important to get right. 

For while she has no wings, her voice is what gives her flight.

Joey: Yes! And her bubbly personality, 

surely you must know, 

makes her the target of all envy, 

when she’s the star of the show!

Susie: She has her soft little curls,

To keep all little girls

Entertained. 

Joey: And as the complement to Bendy,

No one would dare want her 

To get maimed.

Susie: She always sees the bright side of things

Joey: And even when she’s caught up in strings

Susie: She gets through it! Even in darkness she gets through it!

Joey: And that is why audiences love her! Susie, my dear Susie, Alice is a beacon of hope. And right now, the world needs hope again! I know she means a lot to you, she means a lot to me too. So I’ve got a proposition for you, a special project that can only be done justice by the original angel. So what do you say, are you up for it?

Susie: You’re quite the charmer Mr. Drew, but you know how these things go. You talk, but the pay talks louder. How do I know you won’t cheat me again? 

Joey: Oh my dear Miss Campbell, you wound me! My pride! But you’re a smart cookie. I’ll make sure to pay you upfront this time, and should this go according to plans, well, you may just get to play Alice again. 

Susie: You...you mean it? 

Joey: Of course I mean it! I’m a man of my word. So what do you say Susie, would you help me bring Alice to life once again? 

Susie: I…

Bendy: No! Don’t do it! You can’t trust him! 

Boris: Run away miss, don’t fall for his lies!

Susie: I will.

Joey: -slightly suspicious chuckling- Excellent. You and me Susie, we’re going places! You’re a star, and you deserve to shine. Come, let me get you a coffee. We have much to discuss.

Susie: I think this is the start of something wonderful.

-footsteps as they walk away-

Alice: Susie, no! I love you, and I miss you, but don’t do this, you have no idea what you’ve gotten into! Get away from her you CREEP!

Twisted Alice: -sighs- I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him. I should’ve known better than to trust his lies.

[kingspoetrysoc]

Interview with Konstantinos Pappis

Konstantinos Pappis is a poet and King’s alumnus who studied Strategic Entrepreneurship and Innovation for his Master’s. He shares his blackout poems on Tumblr @blackout-diary​ and on Instagram @blackout_diary, and is the Music Editor at Our Culture. The King’s Poet’s Karen Ng talks to Konstantinos about his poetic experiences, process, and inspirations.

What is your earliest memory of poetry?

Like many people, my earliest memories of poetry are associated with school, where I felt pretty alienated by the way we approached poetry. It felt cold and analytical and I struggled to connect with it on a personal level – or perhaps there was less of a need to at that age. Although there were some Greek poets we studied in school whose work I remember liking, including C.P. Cavafy, Kostas Karyotakis, and Odysseas Elitis, it wasn't until later during my adolescence when I started discovering poetry outside of an academic context that I was able to appreciate it more. Things really started to change when I was introduced to English and American poets; for some reason, something about it not being in my native language made it easier to engage with and relate to. And then eventually I was able to approach different kinds of poetry from both an intellectual and an emotional standpoint.

How did you first realise you wanted to write poetry? What do you enjoy the most about writing?

In a word, Tumblr (RIP). But honestly, finding a community of people who used poetry as a form of expression more than anything else inspired me to do the same. I realised it wasn’t this inaccessible, overly sophisticated thing that you had to be especially clever or well-read to really get. Again, if you weren’t doing it to get a good grade, it was considered a bit weird to engage with poetry in any way, so seeing it outside of that context was pretty eye-opening.

It was also something that came with realising I had a passion for the arts in general. Music had always been my primary outlet, but poetry took over when I felt I needed the words to have more space on their own – to jump out on the page and release all the teenage angst I was going through, because listening to Creep every day somehow wasn’t enough. None of that poetry was any good, of course, but it was vital. And when I felt like this really personal thing was something I could share and exchange with friends, writing also became an important part of embracing vulnerability and forming close connections, too. I came to enjoy it more as a medium than an art form, in a way – at first, at least. 

In terms of what I enjoy about it now… Well, it’s hard to articulate, but if we’re talking about writing poetry specifically, I guess the appeal hasn’t changed all that much. It’s been a while since I’ve felt inspired to write a poem, but in the past it’s always been when I felt like I need to channel something that I couldn’t through any other form. Some might view the poetic form as being kind of limiting, but I feel like it’s quite the opposite – it’s almost freeing in the endless possibilities that it presents.

Above: a blackout poem by Konstantinos. The source text is “Moon” by @makingthingswrite on Instagram.

You’ve written a lot of amazing blackout poems! What about this form  appeals the most to you?

Blackout poetry appeals to me for almost entirely different reasons. I treat it more like a mental exercise that can be both calming and stimulating; something that operates on a more subconscious level. I like that I don’t have to be particularly inspired to do it, not even by the text that I’m using. I like that it doesn’t necessarily have to make sense, that I don’t have to stress over the final result too much. I like that it can then inspire me to make something else. I like the visual aspect of it, the act of repurposing something and giving it new meaning not just by altering the text but also its surroundings. Of course, people can make blackout poetry in a much more intentional way, but what sets it apart for me is that it’s a creative outlet that can be simple and almost passive yet gratifying at the same time.

How do you select a text for your blackout poems – where do you look? What do you look for?

It really varies: sometimes I’ll take photos from a book – I used to do blackout on old books nobody would ever open, but I switched to doing everything digitally –  and sometimes I’ll search for poems or articles randomly online. Reviews often work quite well. There does have to be something about the text that sticks out to me for me to use it as a source, but I tend not to overthink it.

I love that – inspiration is everywhere in our daily lives, even when we aren’t looking for it! Can you tell us a little about your writing process? Is it more emotion-led or methodical?

For blackout it’s entirely intuitive. For poetry in general I would say it’s almost always emotion-led, but the editing part can be more methodical. Normally, a lot of it happens late at night when I can’t sleep, and if I can’t sleep long enough for me to write things down and it doesn’t strike me as absolutely terrible in the morning, then it might turn into a poem.

Above: a blackout poem by Konstantinos. The source text is Sam Sodomsky’s review of duendita’s song “Open Eyes”. Your poem pebble (an ode) was one of the first poems to be published in our magazine. It isn’t a blackout poem, but could you tell us a little about it too – do you remember what it was like writing it?

See above re: late-night thoughts and the utter absurdity of the human condition! 

How has your experience of sharing your poetry to Instagram been? Are there any tips you could share with our readers? 

I haven’t done it in a year, partly due to a lack of inspiration and partly because I’ve tried to distance myself from Instagram and other social media platforms as much as I can – though maybe I’ll go back to Tumblr? But my experiences with the Instagram writing community have been nothing but great – I participated in Escapril back in April of last year, a yearly event founded by Savannah Brown, that encourages users to write and share a poem a day based on a prompt. It was a really great and fun challenge that helped me write and read more and connect with other poets. I would say participating in these kinds of communities is probably the best way to utilise the platform.

Thank you for that advice! On a similar note, which poets and poems inspire you the most? These could include childhood inspirations… Have your influences changed over the years? 

I would not be the person I am nor would I have any interest in poetry if it weren’t for Sylvia Plath. I can’t even pinpoint exactly when I first encountered her work, but I identified with it to an almost unhealthy degree as a teenager, as I’m sure many people have. I still get that feeling whenever I revisit her poetry or read more about her life and art. Also, a lot of spoken word videos from people like Sarah Kay really resonated with me at a young age. 

More recently, the closest I’ve gotten to that feeling of being deeply excited and inspired by poetry was when I discovered Savannah Brown’s work a couple of years ago. Her spoken word videos and poetry films really moved me, and her second poetry collection – which came out last year – is absolutely incredible (I wrote about it here). Lately I’ve also been listening to a lot of musicians whose work intersects with poetry, including Cassandra Jenkins and Anika Pyle, whose most recent albums reckon with grief and loss in a really powerful way.

Above: a blackout poem by Konstantinos. The source text is Christopher Gilbert’s poem “Fire Gotten Brighter”. Are there any styles besides blackout which you particularly love, or themes? Are there any topics you gravitate towards? 

I’ve always gravitated towards confessional poetry, both in terms of what I tend to write and what I like to read. Something most of the writers I’ve mentioned have in common is that they use intimate language to evoke a deep yearning for connection, in the face of existential dread and the unfathomable vastness of the cosmos. That usually does the trick!

Have any experiences at King’s Poetry Society or King’s in general – events, classes, readings, people you’ve met, or London itself – been particularly memorable, or inspired you? Can you tell us a little about them?

Absolutely. Just being in London, not even necessarily the experiences I had there, made me want to write more poetry than I had in a long time. There’s a Savannah Brown video essay on YouTube where she talks about passing a billion people on the street – obviously in the before times – and being like, “Who are all of you people? Could I care for you? How many of you idiots could I love?” That’s basically the gist of what had been stirring in me for a long time and that I still think about to this day. And then being a part of King’s Poetry Society was an opportunity for me to try and channel that, and engage in an actual physical writing community in a way I never had before. I literally read a poem inspired by that video during one of our poetry reading events – that will certainly stay with me.

Above: Konstantinos’ poem “doors on the underground”. He read this poem at one of the 2019-20 King’s Poetry Society critique sessions.

How important do you think writing communities are, in fostering “better” writing? In your experience, is writing helped by discussion? 

I think they’re incredibly important, not just in fostering “better” writing but also fostering a space for vulnerability. Poetry can be an intensely private form of writing, but so much can be gained from discussing it, especially if one is looking to not only hone their craft but also learn from and connect with others. Us writers can be especially introverted people (hi!), and may be discouraged by the long stretches of silence that can pervade a poetry meeting, but there’s power in hearing the words you or someone else has written out loud. Even a single comment can completely change a way you think about a poem.

What do you think the value of reading poetry is? Can a poem profoundly change someone’s life? Conversely, can someone read a poem and be unaffected – and if this happens, has a poet “failed”? 

I think Marianne Moore sums it up pretty well in her poem Poetry, where she talks about finding in it “a place for the genuine.” As for the second question, poetry can definitely change someone’s life – not to be corny or anything, but like all art, it can also save someone’s life.

That said, I don’t think a poet has failed if the reader feels emotionally unaffected by their work. Sometimes, a writer may wish to portray an event or theme in a cold and unaffecting manner to get a certain point across. There’s value in that type of poetry, too, and art’s inherent subjectivity means that someone might be moved by a poem that someone else feels indifferent towards. There’s also value in poetry that is private and not meant to be shared, because even if only one person derives something from it, then it is valuable. I do think, however, that the further one strays from that ideal of earnestness, the closer the work hinges on being trivial or pretentious. We’ve moved past the need to be overly cynical or ironic.

I agree, poetry that is never shared is not lesser by any means – I find great personal value in treating a poem like a diary of sorts. Maybe each stanza mimics a different entry... With all that you feel manifesting into this thing that is at once completely attached to your experience but also – if shared – something that becomes detached and open to reinterpretation... That is really powerful. How do you think people who have never written before could be encouraged to start writing for themselves, whether for fun or as catharsis – without the pressures of becoming someone recognised or followed?

I really like that approach! I think the diaristic style of writing is often looked down upon as less legitimate, even though it isn’t. To answer your question, I think normalising the act of writing poetry purely for enjoyment or as a form of catharsis is really important, especially from a young age. Part of that could be achieved by exposing young people to more than what one might call the poetic canon. Being disappointed that a student isn’t engaging with poetry when they’ve only been introduced to Shakespeare is like assuming someone isn’t musically inclined when they’ve only been exposed to a single genre of music. Another way would be to incorporate more writing activities that utilise the poetic form, and allow the freedom to explore it outside the confines of academic study. I’m not saying all teachers should follow the example of Dead Poets Society, but there are so many ways to foster creativity and make poetry more approachable.

Do you think poetry is sometimes perceived as an inaccessible art? 

100%. I think that’s the biggest problem with how poetry is perceived. A lot of it comes down to the way poetry has been taught and disseminated for centuries – through a lens that is inherently exclusionary, upheld by systems that are classist, racist, sexist, etc. Hopefully that is starting to change – studies have shown that more and more young people read and write poetry, largely thanks to the rise of social media poetry. Poetry can represent such a wide range of experiences, but for people to view it as an accessible art form, more barriers need to be broken. Amanda Gorman becoming the youngest inaugural poet in American history, and the first Black poet ever to perform at the Super Bowl this year alone is certainly a huge sign of progress. 

Do you have a favourite literary journal, or a poetry platform you would like to recommend? What have you been reading lately? 

Subscribing to the Poetry Foundation and the Academy of American Poets’ poem-a-day newsletters has been a great way of keeping poetry in my everyday life. Recently, I’ve also been loving a podcast called Poetry Unbound, where each 10-15 minute episode immerses you into a single poem. On YouTube, I love Ours Poetica, a video series curated by poet Paige Lewis in collaboration with the Poetry Foundation that features readings of poems by writers, artists, and actors – including John Green reading Moore’s Poetry and Savannah Brown reading her poem the universe may stop expanding in five billion years. It offers a truly intimate and approachable way of experiencing poetry.

Above: Konstantinos’ poem “lonely little london”.

Is it important to you to read a wide variety of poetry, from different communities and on different subjects? Do you think it’s important for poets to write about things beyond their immediate world? 

That’s probably the biggest shift that has happened since I first got into poetry – realising how important it is to read widely. I was mostly drawn to poetry that reflected my own limited experience, but now more than ever I find it vital to immerse myself in different points of view, especially from underrepresented or marginalised groups. I now see poetry less as a means of personal expression than a form of empathy, and because of that I’m able to gain so much more from it. That said, I don’t think it’s necessary for poets to write about things that aren’t part of their immediate world. It depends on one’s goals and ambitions, but there’s already so much that’s unique about a person’s immediate world – things that are reflected in society at large – that being forced to write outside of it can often lead to work that feels hollow and insincere, or even insensitive. That doesn’t mean it has to be limiting – the beauty of poetry is that you can write about your immediate world but not necessarily through it.

Lastly… Do you think a poet is born a poet, or made into one? Which is more important: natural talent, or practice and growth? Can anyone become a poet? If everyone has it in them, do you think anyone who puts their mind to it can produce meaningful work – since, of course, all work is meaningful in one way or another, whether privately or publicly?

This is a slightly tricky question to answer, because either way it could imply that only some are afforded the privilege of becoming poets. If a small percentage of people are born poets, then of course that means everyone else is inherently excluded; if one is made into a poet, then only those who are able to cultivate any artistic inclinations will have the opportunity of fulfilling their potential. Most people will say the truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle, that it’s some complicated combination of the two. But I feel it’s much simpler than that – when you boil it down, really, everyone is born a poet.

[moonie-here]

In regard to what I was saying in a few posts down about J.K.Rowling.

I was going to reply to what @/discountalien-pancake reblogged from my post only to find that they blocked me, instead of continuing what I thought was going to be a civil and interesting discussion. I can't see any of what they said in reply to me and I can no longer interact with that post, so this is getting it's own post.

I wasn't sure if there was a green light on J.K. Rowling's new book or not. I didn't know that it was already being printed and sold. I can only hope that the sales are underwhelmingly low compared to the cost of printing.

Like I said above in my other post, to erase J.K.Rowling from pop culture is quite literally impossible. She will always be known as the woman who wrote Harry Potter, an iconic book series that is, to this day, popular across the world. That is the majority of her image besides being trasphobic and racist, among other things Im sure.

She reminds me of H.P.Lovecraft in a few ways. 1. They both created a loved and complex fictional universe that people enjoy.

2. They're both horrible people, and the fans of their works, recognize that. (for the most part)

3. They're both racist and show that in their work. (Lovecraft dehumanizing and demonizing people of color, Rowling using stereotypes and naming the character of asian descent Cho Chang despite her being a british citizen, from british parents.)

Lovecraft was a shit person. Guess what, he's still talked about years later and so are his stories. He isn't the only one either. Bad people can make good, long lasting things. We can acknowledge that they they're bad people and separate our enjoyment of that thing from the person who made it. It's what any rational person would do.

I can like the story and not like the person who wrote it. That goes for ant piece of writing, painting, poetry, (Edgar Allen Poe was a pedophile who was in love with his cousin. He's still taught in school and praised for his writing), music, architecture, etc...

Erasing J.K. Rowling from pop culture is at its core, unrealistic. It won't happen. That would mean erasing Harry Potter as well, which also is never going to happen. Hey name is on the books. It always will be. All we can do is to try and make her platform, influence and reach shrink. She no longer deserves any of those to the extent that she has them now.

Infamy is the best we can do. The woman who wrote an amazing book series that inspired so many. The woman who's fans turned against her because she revealed she was a horrible human being.

[justforbooks]

Bill Withers, influential soul singer behind Ain't No Sunshine, dies aged 81

Bill Withers, the influential US soul singer who wrote Lean on Me, Ain’t No Sunshine and Lovely Day has died aged 81 of heart complications, according to a statement from his family.

Withers wrote and recorded several other major hits including Use Me and Just the Two of Us, before retiring in the mid-1980s and staying out of the public eye.

He is survived by his wife Marcia Johnson and their two children, Todd and Kori. The family statement reads:

“We are devastated by the loss of our beloved, devoted husband and father. A solitary man with a heart driven to connect to the world at large, with his poetry and music, he spoke honestly to people and connected them to each other. As private a life as he lived close to intimate family and friends, his music forever belongs to the world. In this difficult time, we pray his music offers comfort and entertainment as fans hold tight to loved ones.”

Lin-Manuel Miranda was among those paying tribute, writing: “Rest In Peace, maestro Bill Withers. What a legacy.” Chance the Rapper said Withers “was really the greatest”, while Chic’s Nile Rodgers described him as “class, class and more class”.

Withers’ songs are some of the most beloved in the American songbook. Ain’t No Sunshine is regarded as one of the all-time great breakup tracks, while Lean on Me, an ode to the supportive power of friendship, was performed at the inaugurations of presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton. Heavily influenced by the church hymns and gospel music of his childhood, it was his first and only No 1 single on the US Billboard pop charts, in 1972.

It has also become an anthem during the coronavirus outbreak, sung by schoolchildren and in impromptu balcony renditions to show support for one another. Donald Trump’s daughter Ivanka wrote on Twitter: “There is no more appropriate time to reflect on his words than now as we lean on each other.”

Just the Two of Us, another song of solidarity, was successfully covered by Will Smith and sampled by Eminem (as well as being spoofed by Bill Cosby and Mike Myers).

The joyous Lovely Day, with its signature 18-second-long held note, was his only UK Top 10 hit, reaching No 7 in 1977 and No 4 in 1988. Withers also won three Grammy awards from nine nominations and entered the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2015.

Born William Harrison Withers Jr in 1938, he faced a difficult childhood in Slab Fork, West Virginia. A stutter held him back from making friends, and, after his father died when Bill was 13, his grandmother helped to raise him. Withers would write a tribute to her with the song Grandma’s Hands from his 1971 debut album Just As I Am: “Grandma’s hands / Used to issue out a warning / She’d say, ‘Billy don’t you run so fast / Might fall on a piece of glass / Might be snakes there in that grass.’” The intro was memorably sampled by Blackstreet for their 1996 R&B classic, No Diggity.

Withers spent nine years in the US Navy before pursuing a career in music. After moving to Los Angeles in 1967, he found a job making toilet seats and recorded demos through the night. Possessed of a smooth and soulful baritone, he signed to Sussex Records and enlisted Booker T Jones to produce Just As I Am. That album spawned the hit Ain’t No Sunshine, which won Withers his first Grammy for best R&B song.

He then poured his experiences of growing up in Slab Fork, a tough coal-mining town with a strong community ethos, into Lean on Me.

His time with Sussex Records didn’t end well. “They weren’t paying me,” he told Rolling Stone in 2015. “They looked at me and said, ‘So, I owe you some money, so what?’ I was socialised in the military. When some guy is smashing my face down, it doesn’t go down well.” He claims to have erased an entire album that he had recorded for the label in a fit of pique. “I could probably have handled that differently,” he said.

Withers signed with Columbia Records and married his second wife, Marcia Johnson, shortly afterwards, in 1976; she eventually became his manager. Withers continued having hit records with Columbia, including the laid-back and optimistic Lovely Day. After three albums in three years, Withers claimed Columbia’s head of A&R, Mickey Eichner, prevented him from going into the studio, leaving a gap of seven years between ’Bout Love (1978) and Watching You Watching Me (1985).

After the latter failed to chart, Withers went into early retirement. The 2009 documentary, Still Bill, explored his reasons for quitting the music industry and painted the picture of a fulfilled musician and human being. Writing in the Chicago Sun-Times, film critic Roger Ebert said: “[Withers] still lives and survives as a happy man. Still Bill is about a man who topped the charts, walked away from it all in 1985 and is pleased that he did.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[creatingnikki]

Dearest Nura,

You play multiple musical instruments? Do you know how utterly magical that is! About two years ago when my baby cousin – aged 8 – was discarding his guitar I asked him to give it to me because I was convinced that watching YouTube videos and powered by my immense fascination of the instrument I would be able to learn it. And it might be true for other people but lol not me. But I never threw it away. It’s still kept in a corner in my room and sometimes I just pick it up and even simply strumming the strings and the sounds that it creates soothes my soul like nothing else. And so I know I’m not discarding it anytime soon.

People like you, who can play musical instruments, have the power of creating magical memories. You really do. Today a friend of mine is leaving the city. I met her at work last year when I joined and she left soon after. And I know work friends aren’t friends friends but some people defy that rule. And she was one of them. Every time I went to her home, she removed a musical instrument, as if some magician. First, it was the ukulele. And she played La Vie En Rose – which being a How I Met Your Mother fan – captured my heart. The next time, she got her harmonica out. And the last time, a fascinating instrument, the name of which I don’t remember.

And each time she said she doesn’t quite know how to play any but perhaps one song. And in those moments she seemed like this young, beautiful, peculiar and brilliant girl – which she absolutely is – but in these moments she seemed like a female protagonist out of a YA book. Someone who collects different instruments and only learns how to play her favourite songs on them. I told her this and then she told me, that you too, with your blog and your poetry, your vivid observations of people and your intriguing disposition seem like a female protagonist out of a YA novel. She proceeded to explain how most people could seem like such if viewed from a certain angle. And reading your answers, I have to say, she was absolutely right.  

Not just because you write fiction (which btw is awesome! Any tips?) and play multiple musical instruments but because of all your answers. The way you feel about love…I have to say I can’t disagree one bit. It is definitely why we are living right now – the only thing that makes all the other pain and suffering worth it. Because if we didn’t have love, what would really be the point of this frustrating and confusing life? Love adds another dimension and adjective to that definition of life. Life is frustrating and confusing and yet magical.

And haha I am far from a sports person but the fact that, aside from your parents, you have said ‘I love you’ the most to your favourite hockey team (Pittsburgh Penguins) is so striking and endearing. See, another beautiful and peculiar YA protagonist trait! We are, aren’t we, the protagonists of our life, as cliché as that sounds. And side characters of so many other books. I also believe while we may not be the writers of our life – because the universe, god, forces we can’t recognise, chain reactions, other people and so much more – determine so much of how our life plays out. But we are the editors, no? We can choose to cut some parts out, to draw the focus onto some other parts. And I think, I agree with Stephen King, when he says – to write is human, to edit is divine.

About stress and life – you know what I am doing today, on a Wednesday in the morning? Writing you this letter. Why am I not at work? Because I took a pass. I am down with the flu and my overwhelming emotions and thoughts. People and obligations exhaust me and I get  worried about my personality (lyrics from TMI by Gray). But it’s true and hence I took a day off. A pass. A mental health day. A pause. Whatever you want to call it but every so often it’s so important for all of us to do this. Students. People working full time. Full time homemakers and parents. Literally everyone. On days like these it’s also so important to:

Keep your phone and social media time to a minimum

Keep social interactions to a minimum

Not push yourself to do anything you don’t want to do

Do silly little things that bring you joy

Unwind in ways that suit you the best

Yell out loud – stop – if you have to for your brain to stop thinking or planning about the future or the past

Knowing that you deserve days like these

You’re also the second person I’ve ever come across who speaks so highly and warmly of your co-workers. And it truly makes me so happy because if the people you spend a majority of your day with can make you feel accepted/loved/understood, that’s another way life truly becomes more magical. When I started work last year, my desk partner and my first friend, made me feel that way. On the surface, we were as different as we could be, and initially we also gave into the human flaw of judging each other, but eventually we really saw the other person for who they were and came to develop a pure and genuine bond. We didn’t communicate much through typical conversations, especially not when one of us was mad or sad. But during such times, she would always leave me my favourite chocolates in my desk. Or doodle something on a sticky note and leave it on my laptop.  I did the same. And these tiny things made those days bearable. And so then it made life bearable.

Love, Nura, as you rightly said is everywhere. I always knew that but The Love Project it has given me hard facts for the same. The people around the world who harbour so much hate and discrimination for other people, I wish I could show them the answers people have given for The Love Project. People all around the world – we love the same way and we hurt the same way. And if that similarity of our truth and existence doesn’t matter then I don’t know what does.

So, Nura, as you live your last teen year, I hope you can look and accept all the love this life has to offer you. Your twenties are going to be as frustrating as exciting. But I do have a feeling that the exciting and magical bits are going to overpower the frustrating ones. So, now and in the future, live well, and edit even better.

All my love, Nikki

Guys, February is 29 days of love letters. I’m writing love letters, as part of The Love Project, and if you’d like me to write one to you, drop me an email at creating.nikki@gmail.com

There are 2 more spots left, and you can still be a part of it if you’d like :D 

I wrote this letter for Nura basis some questions they answered. You can read the questions and their answers here. 

[optimiist]

𝚒’𝚍  𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙  𝚊𝚗  𝚎𝚢𝚎  𝚘𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖  ;   that  there  is  LIONEL  MILLER  ,  notorious  for  being  (  resentful  )  and  (  tense  )  ,  but  there  are  times  when  he  can  be  (  considerate  )  and  (  self-effacing  )  .   i've  heard  that  he  could  pass  as  a  YUSUF GATEWOOD  doppelganger  ,  but  i  don't  see  it  .   the  (  thirty-eight  )  year - old  cis man has  been  in  town  for  (  his entire life  )  and  they  are  an  (  english professor  )  by  day  and  murder  suspect  by  night  .   they  tend  to  spark  images  of  an endless collection of the romantics - from the john donnes of the world to the carson mccullers’ ,  the perfect leather-on-tweed stereotype , being a willing human doormat to those with bright eyes and a kind smile , rehearsing the humphrey bogart but ending up the victor laszlo , a secret even worse than murder: …your favorite movie is the abomination of 2019  .   you’ll  know  when  they  walk  by  because  they  always  seem  to  be  blasting  as  time  goes  by  by  DOOLEY WILSON  .   it  truly  explains  why  they're  known  as  THE  SECRET  ADMIRER  .

TO KNOW:

born to a single mother, lionel was lucky in never joining the daddy issues™ club. nonetheless, his mother’s status still deeply affected him. with all of the men he watched go in and out of her life, none staying around long enough for him to call his true role model, he found a very thin line - but it was still a line and he knew exactly which side he wanted to be on. the line? separated the good men from the toxic men. and, of course, he wanted to be a good man!

it should be noted that his mother worked in the local library ( he was unaware of why it was named what it was named for quite a while - he thought it was just named after abraham lincoln and some other guy ). naturally, he spent most of his youth reading authors all the way from shel silverstein to lewis carroll to… most importantly… t.s. eliot. why is this the most important? you may ask yourself.

he unironically likes cats. the book it was based on… the musical… even the 2019 movie… there are very few people he’d ever admit it to, but… his favorite movie is cats (2019).

ANYWAY, as he grew, he matured into the catalogs of writers such as john donne, william shakespeare, tennessee williams, carson mccullers…

he was fucked!!

the authors and the poets and the playwrights all gave him a sense of what love is, what love must be. he began writing poetry, attempting to mimic donne’s subtle style. this both helped and harmed him when he met the girl he was totally sure would be the love of his life: chastity. she was gorgeous and kind and had bright eyes… 

he prepared a speech asking her out and rehearsed it every morning. just in case he forgot, he even wrote it down on notecards. but, when the time came, he was always just too… frozen. 

he didn’t shoot his shot on time - before he knew it, ethan kim was dating the girl he’d psyched himself out of asking out one too many times. 

although it was difficult for him to try to see chastity as just a friend ( perhaps friendly acquaintance at most on her part ), he did his best… especially when ethan enlisted him to help him get the girl™.lionel had plenty of moral qualms about it, but… ultimately, money was money. libraries didn’t make much. even the smallest amount would help. 

not to mention, it was an excellent way to see if he… would’ve been successful in asking her out. in words, at least.

he’d give ethan poems he’d already written, soliloquies he’d been inspired to write, and just… ultimately give him the advice that all of the romantics had given him throughout the years.

when chastity was murdered, his heart :( shattered :( died along with her but more poetically :( while his alibi checked out - he had been in the library writing a poem in donne’s style, the subject inspired by mccullers’s ‘the lover v. the beloved’ tangent in the ballad of the sad café, and he won! there were some areas in which they could poke holes: his mother, who clearly wouldn’t want her son to go to jail, was the only eye witness, they had no way of proving the date he submitted the poem, etc., etc. but, for the most part, his alibi was pretty solid.

this idiot didn’t profess his love until she was dead. WAYYYYY too late to shoot ur shot buddy!!

anyway, he’d already gotten accepted into college - thank god because he, otherwise, would not have been in the state to write a worthy application. he chose local for his undergrad. 

along the way, he found some new people to love. or try to love. it wasn’t exactly the actual relationship that made it hard for him to ‘get over’ chastity, what considering they’d never had one, rather the literal death and lack of closure.

but, come grad school, he met the woman he would be able to call his wife!! she was lovely and kind and beautiful and had such bright eyes. after only two years of dating, he proposed (granted, he’d been prepping… for an entire year... ) and!! she said yes!!

with an english professor slot (yes, slot) opening up at the university, they returned to taunwick. it was absolutely perfect, if you were to ask him. he could help his mom as libraries went the way of the dodo, he could potentially start a family (they were considering adoptive), he had a job he loved!!

but... then there’s that whole problem of the reunion… and, while he’s been doing well in taunwick, what in spite of the reminders of chastity… this could be yikes central for his marriage!! which is why it’s gonna be submitted to the main in .5 seconds!! 

and that’s what you missed on glee!

TL;DR:

hopeless romantic who will never admit that he unironically likes all forms of cats.

CONNECTION IDEAS:

** (open to any gender unless otherwise specified)

his wife (f): WILL BE BEING SENT INTO THE MAIN.

people he tried to love: as was previously mentioned, when he entered undergrad, he desperately tried to find people he could love just as much as he figured he’d loved chastity. only real requirement would be that they would’ve both gone to the local university at the same time!!

opposites attract: he’s meek, easy to unnerve… give me this. give me 13 going on 30’s main friendship.

neighbor: pretty self-explanatory!! they live in the suburbs next door to he and his wife… both of whom are disgustingly domestic!! 

couple friends: pls this idea just makes me laugh. we love the failed version of this connection where… it’s their last resort… they’re desperate… everyone else is trying to induct them into having a foursome… they just want a wholesome friendship… this is the closest they’re getting!!

students: let’s hear it for all the younger characters out there!!

more to come!!

FURTHER:

for a bit of a better idea:

pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/idkimnewwastaken/lionel-not-richie/

playlist (the final song is a lil treat): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7vYatuuQmEWxcKvs2CBjCa?si=_XQCKYGsRz2jujfMT7V1BQ

musing tag: https://optimiist.tumblr.com/tagged/lionel-%7C-musings.

mini stats (to be later extended): optimiist.tumblr.com/ls (the font is strangely huge rn but… don’t feel like fixing it at this moment in time :\ )