O bony relic of forgotten days, Which, from my bookshelf, dominates the room, Your empty sockets, with sardonic gaze, Follow me weirdly in the deepening gloom! I often think, if sudden speech returned, You might reveal that secret, grisly jest… Read More ›
“Why do you wait at your door, woman, Alone in the night?” “I am waiting for one who will come, stranger, To show him a light. He will see me afar on the road And be glad at the sight.”… Read More ›
“…Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. “What! is not this my place of strength,” she said, “My spacious mansion… Read More ›
The Year of Halloween 