Afternoon darkens into evening. A man falls deeper and deeper into the slow spiral of sleep, into the drift of it, the length of it, through what feels like mist, and comes at last to an open door through which he passes without knowing why, then again without knowing why goes to a room where he sits and waits while the room seems to close around him and the dark is darker than any he has known, and he feels something forming within him without being sure what it is, its hold on him growing, as if a story were about to unfold, in which two characters, Pleasure and Pain, commit the same crime, the one that is his, that he will confess to again and again, until it means nothing.
Mystery and Solitude in Topeka
M
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I
What shall I do with this absurdity —
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Read Poem What shall I do with this absurdity —
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Decrepit age that has been tied to me
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Sonnet 84: While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn yields by Anna Seward

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn yields,
Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
November, dragging on this sunless day,
Lours, cold and sullen, on the watery fields;
And Nature to the waste dominion yields,
Stripped her last robes, with gold and purple gay —
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You have put your two hands upon me, and your mouth,
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The white butterfly in the park is being read by many.
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Then the park fills with people. To each one, eight faces polished like jade, for all
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0

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