Um, yes. Accurate. At least, to me.
Originally posted on Thought Catalog:
View original 880 more words
Um, yes. Accurate. At least, to me.
Originally posted on Thought Catalog:
View original 880 more words
I am a lover of poetry–I am positive most have guessed this by now.
This being said, I simply wanted to list my favorite poets and a favorite poem by them on my blog. Please enjoy, if you wish to take a look. It is a modest list, however I did not want to be overbearing, and I consider these four poets to be my top favorite poets.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes: Song
Edgar Allan Poe: (It was really difficult to choose just one poem, therefore here is my current favorite, although it changes daily-)Ulalume
TS Eliot: The Hollow Men
Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
(As per requested by a friend, here is a piece by dearest Henry. Please enjoy.)
FOREIGN SCENES AND CUSTOMS.
LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE NORTH AMERICAN.
After a passage in which we had the usual quantity of good and bad weather, we arrived at the entrance of the Giver Plate, where we saw a large Brazilian fleet at anchor–Not caring to be overhauled, and feeling a little proud of our vessel, we determined to shew them it was in our power, and not in theirs, whether we would submit to it or not–and so it proved, for the vessel they had sent in chase of us, whether from fear, as we looked “rakish,” or from dull sailing, was soon far behind, and ere night we had lost sight of her entirely. As we were now near the place of destination, Monte Video, we anchored until the coming day–our captain, with that caution so natural to a yankee, would not risk his vessel at the very port, after having successfully passed the dangers of “The dark and stormy ocean.”
It was almost sun-down when we arrived at the harbor, and there was something sombre and gloomy in the place which I did not like–perhaps the number of vessels which had seen their best days, and have by accident or design drifted on shore: or the gloomy towers of their large cathedral,–the low long dark buildings designed for barracks and hospitals–to which you may add a dark evening,–caused the feeling, but certain it is, the place made an unfavorable impression on me, although during my stay there I found it the very reverse of what I at first anticipated. Yet when I think of it, the impressions of my mind on first beholding the city, still forcibly revert back, notwithstanding the subsequent proof of the incorrectness with which they were formed:–so firmly does first ideas cling to the remembrance.
Monte Video is at present in possession of the Brazilians–but the Patriots were almost at the very gates, and it was a common occurrence to observe a skirmish between parties of the contending armies;–but whether it was the effusion of some hot-headed young officer, who thought it a pleasant way of ending the day, or was dictated by the more experienced head of age, I cannot determine; but the former opinion seems the most probable, as not benefit could be expected by either party from their occurrence, and they generally ended with the loss of two or three killed or wounded on either side.
I had the good fortune to be there during the Carnival–I say good fortune, but I think I am rather wrong, as I received some not very agreeable effects of their frolic–however, as I witnessed something novel, and as we must generally contribute in some manner for the indulgence of our curiosity, I must fain be satisfied. The officers of the French Corvette Zelé, then in port, with the gaiety peculiar to their nation, appeared to be in their proper element. On the morning of the first day, their largest boat, manned with sixteen oars and the white pennon of France flying, was seen approaching the town. In her bows, leaning on a staff and dressed only in a pair of tarry trowsers and tarpaulin hat, was a person whom I had taken for a negro, and it was therefore with no small surprise that I learnt he was the captain of the corvette–In the stern were seven or eight other officers, all in masquerade dresses. As this was the first scene of the kind which I had ever beheld, you may be assured it afforded me considerable amusement.
In strolling through the streets gazing at the strange figures before me, I received a blow, which gave me,–not the appendage of a gentleman,–in the appearance of an essential member of my physiognomy. Surprised at this unlooked for compliment, I turned round as hastily as the effects of my mishap would permit, and discovered that the persons who had thus cavalierly treated me, were some young ladies, stationed on a neighboring terrace, who immediately began to pelt me with eggs filled with cologne water, and from one of which well-aimed missiles I received the mark, which, in my own country, would have caused a suspension of my perambulations for some time–I was afterwards informed that iw as a great compliment to be noticed in so striking a manner by the fair ones of the city–but notwithstanding this intimation, I felt no anxiety to receive any more of them, if they were to be conferred in a similar coin.
The commerce of Monte Video is not very great. Its imports are beef, pork, soap, wines, brandy, gin, &c. Its exports are principally hides and horns, but vessels generally return from thence in ballast, as hides are frequently shipped at a great loss. It can never be a place of much trade–the harbour is gradually filling up, and vessels drawing more than sixteen feet water cannot come within some miles of the town–and lying in the open roads is very dangerous, as the anchorage is not good, and the heavy gales which are so frequent, have driven many a gallant ship from its proper element to the land. The Macedonian dragged her anchors to within an hundred yards of a reef–and our commodore after that, at the least appearance of a blow, had every thing safe and snug.
The inhabitants of Monte Video are principally Portuguese–but there are many Americans and Englishmen in the place, all intent on making money,–no matter how. It is an actual fact, that most of the vessels which have forced the blockade and arrived at Buenos Ayres, were first purchased at Monte Video–and I have many reasons to believe that the principal authorities wink at the procedure. The inhabitants are generally believed to be in favor of the Patriots, but if so, they do not and dare not openly avow it.
Peaches, apples, melons, &c. are now (February,) in great plenty; and, whist I am complaining of the warmth, you are no doubt blowing your fingers, and wishing for a residence in a milder clime. But with all the novelties and all the attractions which a foreign country possesses, still in the midst of pleasure the heart will turn to its home, and long to be there. There is something in tis very name, which crowds the mind with such pleasurable sensations that it is impossible to describe them.
As an instance of the kindly feeling with which our countrymen greet each other in a foreign land, I will state a little circumstance that transpired whilst at Monte Video. One Sunday a friend and myself had strayed a short distance out of the gates, when we perceived two persons approaching us; I do not know if it was instinct, but I immediately fancied they were my countrymen–and I thought they were yankees-”You’ve guessed right,” says one; and in fifteen minutes we were almost as well acquainted as if we had been brothers–and I verily believe I never passed a more pleasant afternoon.
But I had nearly forgotten the ladies, who of course are entitled to some notice in my attempt to describe their city. They are generally rather handsome, with somewhat of the Spanish cast–and so far from being disinclined to intimacy with foreigners, as most of their countrymen are, many have intermarried with the English and Americans resident here, and are gradually losing that restraint imposed on their sex in Catholic countries. I am. &c.
(*I apologize if there were any mistakes when transcribing this piece. Please let me know if this is the case, and I will fix it.)
(Taken from here.)
Alright, I have not actually posted about this man yet, so I can’t state this as being the twenty-fifth fact I’m providing for you guys, however I figured, rather than writing a long post discussing this man now, I would share a snippet of information and poem and call it quits for the day. How does that sound?
For starters, Griswold was Edgar Poe’s rival and enemy–don’t worry, the feelings were mutual. In fact, Griswold went on to destroy Edgar’s reputation after Poe’s death, and said rumors stated in the infamous obituary written by Sir Griswold continue on to this day. This is upsetting for me as I have to dispel all misconceptions of Edgar. I digress.
Despite the fact that this SOB was so horribly cruel and an awful person, he had redeeming qualities. Specifically, after his wife Caroline’s death, Rufus stayed by her casket as it was being delivered by train, and he did not sleep or leave her side for thirty hours. There would be another occurrence, thirty days after her burial, in which he would stay by her side, weeping profusely, for thirty hours. A friend had to take him away, because, you know, it’s kind of odd to uncover your deceased wife’s grave and kiss her and give her poetry. At least, this isn’t my personal preference of how to spend a weekend.
That information being said, below is a poem written by Griswold after Caroline’s death. I hope you all enjoy. It is long, however it is worth the read.
We parted as the day drew near its end.
The rose of health was on her beauteous cheeks.
Her quenchless love beamed sadly from her eyes,
And when I prayed that Heaven would preserve us,
She joined, with tears, as if some dreadful signal
Had gleamed upon her from another world.
“My love—my wife!” “Dear husband, may God bless you!”
And then we kissed each other fervently,
And I commended her to Him again
Who is the Friend of all who are in sorrow,
And promised quickly to come back to her.
A new embrace—oh God! how ardent was it!—
And then I tore myself from her dear arms,
With passionate kisses, and hot, streaming tears.
I looked back from the window of my carriage.
Her heavenly eyes were watching my departure,
With such unutterably deep affection
That when the winding street did hide her from me,
It seemed as if the stars were blotted out.
As if the holy angels veiled their faces,
As if God had withdrawn His high support.
The third day came, and I, afar from her,
Sat with my gay companions at the board.
The jest went round, the merry laugh rung out.
No thought of sorrow made a bright eye dim—
It was the end of human life to me;
My other days are but a lingering death.
The bell sounds quick—my name is in the hall—
A messenger is there to summon me
From festive scenes unto the charnel-house!
His errand is not spoken, nor do eyes
Import the dreadful sentence to my mind.
But the air changes, and my sight grows dim,
While some invisible being brands the tidings
Deep on my heart, Henceforth thou art alone!
As the dawn broke into her silent chamber,
Around her bed were gathered a few friends,
Waiting the moment of her soul’s departure.
She looked about her for one far away.
In her delirium she had cried for him,–
The partner of her young and happy years!
But now the seal of death was on her lips,
And she still sought him with her tender eyes,
Which shone with dazzling and supernal brightness.
What tongue can tell the agony she felt
When other forms approached her dying bed,
And he came not—the chosen of her soul!
The iron steeds that night flew swiftly onward.
The stars were veiled, the moon refused to shine,
A black eclipse was on the face of nature.
The outer and the inner world were darkened.
Before the midnight we had met again!
The living and the dead were locked together,
Not in the cruel Tuscan’s loathed embrace,
But with love stronger than Mezentius’ steel.
I knelt beside you all the long drear night.
I kissed with agony your marble brow.
And though your old companions turned away
Oh, dearest, from your cold and faded form,
Death could not make it terrible to me.
Although the blackness of too quick decay
Began to overspread your beauteous cheeks,
And your sweet lips were colorless and cold,
And the dull lustre of your straining eyes
Did fall like mildew on my anguished heart,
Could I forget that roses here had bloomed?
That these to mine had been so often pressed?
That these had beamed such tender love on me?
Oh, those mild eyes! their lids were still half-parted.
And you seem’d, dear one, striving to unclose them,
To give assurance by their gentle glances
That e’en in death I still was loved by you.
When my head rested on your icy temples
Their very coldness warmed my brain to phrenzy.
I called upon you, dearest, in my madness,
To break the fetters in which death had bound you,
To look into my eyes, to glad my ears
With the sweet melody of your dear voice,
Saying you loved me and forgave my errors.
I cried, oh heart, unto whose quick pulsations
I’d listened in so many a sorrowing hour
Until your turbulent motion brought me peace,
“Awake! beat on! the river of my tears
Again doth wet the drapery about thee!”
But cold, all cold, and silent as the statue
That has reclined o’er death a thousand years!
Then I would gaze on you, and round your coffin,
Oh, dear one, clasp my arms, in wretchedness,
And kiss you with hot lips, and cry to God
To let you come, in mercy, back to me.
And seeing tears upon your cheeks and eyes,
I deemed my prayer was heard, and laughed aloud,
And shouted, in my joy, my thanks to Heaven.
But when my reason was once more in action,
And I perceived those waters had but fallen
From the hot fountain struggling in my brain,–
Oh, then, in utterness of woe, I died,
And fell beside you in death’s helplessness.
To me came back the life invoked for you.
I had not drained the dregs of suffering
The dread compound of misery and life
Was so commingled in cup for for me.
I could not drink from one without the other,–
And He permits them not to pass from me.
You had no equal in your loving kindness
When you were with me in this cheerless world;
And can it be that your immortal spirit
Feels less of that exalted, deep affection,
That gave your voice on earth its seraph sweetness,
That made your eyes beam with celestial brightness,
The gentle twining of your arms around me
To seem like the embrace of holy angels,
Than while you lingered here on earth among us?
Oh, loved one! in your more exalted virtue
Is there such change made in your very nature
That you can feel no pity for your husband,
Left here alone to die, and not see death?
If a cold word in life did veil my feelings,
And I seemed harsh, or any way unkind,
You now can read my heart’s most secret pages,
And know my love was changeless as’t was fervent.
Have I not drank sufficiently of woe,
Has not my punishment been deep enough,
To win your pardon and your sympathy?
The true, who die in Christ, my faith has taught me
Become the ministers of God to us
Who linger with frail hearts and unchaste passions
In this dark valley of the shade of death.
To whom, Oh holy and immortal being,
Would you return more quickly than to me?
For two long nights have I my vigils kept,
Thinking the living and the dead might meet
Beside the form your mortal life made sacred;
Still praying God that you might visit me,
And you, to manifest your spirit’s presence,
And strained my glazed eyes to see your form
In the cold vacancy that was about me.
You saw my agony, yet would not heal it;
You knew my brain was turned to molten lava,
And would not lay your finger on my brow;
You who once lived but to fulfil my wishes,
And gave fruition ere my hopes were uttered,
Now heard my prayer for one brief word of pardon,
Knowing it would give peace unto my soul,
And yet were silent as the clay before me!
Then I went out to look upon the stars
In hopes to hear their ancient music waken
The holy harmonies that gave to man
Assurance of a more sublime existence,
Where pain and death and mourning could not come.
But they shone coldly on me from their places,
In the far ether, and were still as death.
So I came back, in hopeless agony,
To cling again unto your senseless clay,
With prayers that as you would not come to me,
I might, without self-murder, fly to thee.
It was the evening of a day in spring
When first I met her in her quiet home;
Within the street were raging rain and wind,
And the kind shelter that I found beside her,
By some mysterious agency expanded
Over my life and soul, which in the world
Had known no haven from its strifes and storms.
A year passed on, and as the early flowers
Were budding in their beauty, we were wedded.
Strange was the history of our love till then—
I let it linger with her in the tomb,
Where, in my life-time, I am chained to death.
Five winters and six summers have gone by,
Made all one summer by her love and virtue,
And when once more the chill November blasts
Shriek in the skies, God takes her to himself.
I heard the night with solemn pace depart—
A day of gloom, with withered garlands crowned,
Tread on her garments as she moved away.
I gather’d a few autumn flowers for her,
Flowers she had reared with gentlest hand for me,
And placed the parting gift upon her bier.
Her scarce-closed eye still seemed to look at me,
Thanking me kindly for the recollection;
But now no tears gushed out to answer her,
The fountain was dried up, at length, for Hope—
The false wild hope she would come back to me—
Stole in the darkness from my side, and left
But utter hopelessness and desolation.
My children—my poor children!—knelt beside me,
I sever’d from her glossy auburn tresses,
For them and me, a frail memorial,
To wear upon our hearts as a rich treasure,
Until our own times come to leave the world.
They who had known her in her early years,
And kept their feelings fresh in after time,
And some who only knew her as the one
Who was the object of my earthly worship,
Approached to look a last and sad farewell.
Then all kneeled down and heard God’s minister
Rehearse the solemn service for the dead.
And then, oh, dearest, you were veiled forever
From those who loved you and from those you loved.
I gazed with desperate calmness on the scene,
Exhausted was the fountain of my tears.
My heart was crushed by its dread weight of woe.
Out of the city, in a quiet vault,
Where her dead mother had before her gone,
My wife and only son were laid together—
A son of prayers, who looked upon the world,
Raised for a moment to his lips the cup
Which held life’s bitter waters, sat it down,
And unto Heaven returned, pure as he came.
The drapery of death is now about them;
The strifes and tumults of this changing world
Cannot disturb the quiet of their rest.
My heart is with its idol in the coffin,
The darkness of her silent place of sleeping
Pervades for me all time and space herafter.
O God! oh God! I know that Thou art just.
That all Thy judgements are with mercy tempered.
That Thou afflictest not with willingness,
And dost design all sorrows for our good.
But I knew not Thy law in perfectness,
I deemed that she who was but loaned to me,
Was a full gift, and to be mine forever.
I never thought that my sweet guardian angel,
Was here but on a mission to save my soul.
“Thou Lord didst give, and Thou hast ta’en away!”
I strive to add the blessing to Thy name
And from my lips, indeed, the high words fall,
But oh, Thou knowest my human heart
Has not submitted to Thy chastening, Lord!
That I have yet failed in my weak endeavors
To bow in humbleness unto Thy will.
I do beseech Thee who wert man Thyself,
And felt the passions of our mortal nature,
Thou who hast tasted death and all our sorrows
To open for us the barred gates of Heaven,
To show me pity. I would fain deliver
Myself and all I have into Thy hand,
To be dealt with as seemeth good to Thee;
But, Lord, how can I meetly yield so much—
Far more than mine own mortal life to me—
Without the aid of Thy most gracious spirit!
Midnight, Nov. 11, 1842
(Poem taken from this source.)
Skeletal fingers, lithe, aged,
stir evaporated tea
around and around, substituting a misplaced spoon,
stirring up ashes routinely.
Would you care for more, I inquire,
pouring from my rusty cup into yours
Chamomile tastes of happiness,
chai is kind,
and jasmine reminds us both of a time when
life was worth living for.
I convince you you are drinking from a fountain
of youthful juices,
but your sunken sockets are blind,
and little do you realize
each day you are drinking your life away.
Life is very long,
this Mr. Eliot knew far too well,
but laying in these god-forsaken plots of dirt
makes the afterlife
Hello, friends. Today I purchased a Romantic Poets book which includes that no-name poet I’d discussed in a blog post a few months back. Because I have not posted in a long while, I figured I may as well make my next few post installments of Beddoes’ poetry. I will also include a more in depth biography, as I am slowly discovering more about him.
Also, may I note on a side note that I was looking through said old posts of mine and am both embarrassed and ashamed at my inconsistency of information and incorrect information over all. Please do forgive me, this blog is very much a journey for me as I discover and rediscover both old and new information. I am ever growing, and I appreciate you all for putting up with my mistakes.
This musical is an absolute gem, let me tell you.
Although I do not know the plot (I surmise it is about his life) this musical looks absolutely fantastic and fascinating. From the gothic, Tim Burton-esque costumery to the quirky choreography and witty lines, this musical is sure to be a sight to behold.
I only wish I could have the chance to see it….If anyone has connections, please hook me up? I will adore you forever.
Seriously though, this musical appears to be the most accurate musical out of the ones I have seen/heard of. (Don’t pay mind to Woolfson’s, it’s bizarre and chronologically inaccurate, not to mention…well, we’ll say that he took entirely to creative liberties when making his musical.)
Nevermore has traveled, from what I’ve read, to Canada, New York City, and London, most recently being performed in Canada between February 15th and March 2nd(?) of this year. I am highly, HIGHLY disappointed that I missed it. There’s always next time. (I don’t live in Canada, however I would have found a way to get there, darn it!)
Here are some clips from the show, please enjoy:
A Clip from Edmonton Press (best clip in my opinion)
As a side note, I want to say that one thing I particularly enjoy about this musical, from what I’ve seen, is that they accurately portray, and ACTUALLY portray in general, Henry, Poe’s brother. I have never witnessed another musical that has integrated Henry as a character. Bravo, Nevermore, bravo.
This is my second and final installment of Henry Poe’s The Pirate. (I apologize that this had been put off so long until now.) You can read the first part here.
“The events of my boyhood I pass over–suffice it to say, I lost my parents at an early age, and was left to the care of a relation. I received a good education, and knew sorrow but by name until I had attained my eighteenth year. I then began a new existence–I was in love–Yes! if ever a man loved passionately–intensely,–I did. I was singular, romantic in my ideas, and Rosalie was equally so. I will pass over the few happy hours of our affection–they would be tedious, and I would not wish to bring them to my mind too foreibly–she promised me her hand, and declared that none but myself should ever possess it–Oh! my friend, you are young–but beware how you entrust your heart and happiness into the keeping of a woman!–it is this that has brought me to what I am–a wretched outcast–a murderer!–a broken-hearted, desperate being!”–The perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead–after a pause of a moment he continued:
“I was too much restricted by poverty to marry–but I believed that I possessed talents which would place me beyond the reach of its effects–I accordingly embraced an offer from a friend to engage in a trading voyage to the West Indies, and as my health was delicate, my friends considered the climate would restore my frame to its usual vigour. I bade a farewell to home and to Rosalie–that kiss!–that farewell kiss, was our last.
We were detained nearly a year trading to different ports, and altho’ I had written home every opportunity, had never received an answer. It was with such feelings of rapturous joy which language is incapable of defining, that I saw our vessel fast approaching my native land–a thousand endearing recollections rushed on my mind–the thought that my Rosalie was false, had never entered my brain–I would have blushed if it had done so.
It was night when our boast landed me at the wharf, and I flew with a beating heart towards her dwelling.
I forgot to mention the dagger–I purchased it with some other trinkets on account of its beauty, and had that day carelessly put it in my waistcoat pocket.
There were lights in the front of the house and I heard music–I wished to see her alone, and went to the garden gate–every thing reminded me of the blissful hours I had passed–I walked towards the servants’ houses, intending to get one of them to carry a message to Rose. The first one I met had often carried letters bewteen us–but she did not recognize me, until I spoke, when she exclaimed, “Oh Lord! Master Edgar is it you!–Miss Rose is to be married in half an hour!” and burst into tears. I have often since been surprised at my own firmness, for I listened calmly to her tale!–’twas short–a wealthy suitor had been proposed and was accepted. I asked if she could not procure me an interview–that, she said was impossible, but I would stand in the passage I might see her as she passed to the room. Thither I went, and as there was only a small lamp burning, I could not easily be discovered–I heard her laughing and talking gaily in her dressing room–strange feelings came over me–a thousand lights seemed to dance before my eyes–a difficulty of breathing, and a confused sensation of pain oppressed me–when I came to myself I was leaning against the wall and my hand convulsively grasping the dagger.
The door opened, and Rosalie with several others, came into the passage–I waited until she was nearly opposite to me, when I let fall the cloak with which I had concealed my face, and exclaimed “do you know me!–I am Edgar Leonard!”–She shrieked at the mention, and I buried my dagger in her bosom!”—-
He paused-his countenance was livid, and he bit his lip till the blood spouted on the table before him.–After a few moments he became more composed, and hastily swallowing a glass of wine, proceeded-
“I remember nothing afterwards until I found myself in the street–my hand felt stiff, and when I held it up in the moonlight, I discovered that it was blood–the truth flashed across my bewildered mind–’twas Rosalie’s life-blood! the dagger, too, looked dim–that too was stained with the blood of her, for whom, but one short hour previous to the fatal disclosure of her inconsistency, every drop in my own veins should have freely flowed!–I knew not how I got there, but I was in the boat, and I remember telling the men to land me on the opposite shore. I wished to fly, if possible, from thought, and embarked under a feigned name in a vessel for Colombia, intending to join the Patriots. On our passage we were captured by this vessel, and as I was now an outcast from society, I gladly joined them, and at the death of their captain I(?)* was chosen the commander.
I am weary of life, yet, although a murderer, I cannot commit suicide. I have courted death, but it shuns me–so true it is, that
“Life’s strange principle will longest lie
Deepest in those who wish the most die.”
You have now heard the history of my ill-fated life–but I have something more with you”–with this, he opened a chest and drew thence a bag of gold–”Take this,” said he,–”it may benefit you–me it never can–and yet,” he bitterly added, that at one time, perhaps, would have made me the happiest of mortals in the possession of my”–He stopped short–and suddenly clasping his hands to his forehead, he reeled and sunk senseless on the floor, ere I could recover from the bewildering maze which had seized upon my faculties.–He slowly recovered, and, when he seemed somewhat composed, I endeavored to persuade him to renounced his present mode of life, and again return to the bosom of civilized society–”Never!” exclaimed he, with a vehemence which made me shrink back with terror–”Never shall my outlawed foot pollute the soil of my much injured country–some speedy vengeance may here close my hated existence–but to bear in retirement those stings of remorse which which my guilt-stricken conscience is afflicted, would be worse than a thousand deaths on the ocean, where every nerve would be firmly strung in the conflict.” His firmness awed me into silence, and I felt no inclination to renew my endeavors to avert him from his purpose.
In a few days we fell in with a vessel bound to Charleston, in which I obtained a passage, and, after bidding an affectionate farewell to the youthful commander of the pirate, to whose attention and kindness I was mainly indebted for my restoration to health, we kept on our course homeward, and his little barque was soon beyond the reach of our observance. When the last glimpse was extinct, (and until then I stood motionless on the deck,) I retired to the cabin, where I found that not only my baggage had been safely and carefully delivered through his orders, but that the gold which I had intentionally left in the cabin of the corsair, was also placed in the hands of the captain, to be delivered to me.
After a pleasant run of five days we reached our destined port, and it being the sabbath day on which we landed, my first duty was fulfilled in repairing to the church and offering up my grateful acknowledgements for the signal display of the finger of providence in my behalf,–and in which a prayer for the unfortunate pirate was not forgotten.”
*I am unsure what this word is.
**Side note: Rosalie was the name of the woman whom Henry loved (in actuality), therefore I find it a tad strange that he would essentially stab her in his story, although this is supposed to be a recollection of “someone he met.” He obviously had it out for her after their messy breakup, which can be seen in a couple of his poems. Poor dear Henry.
Wherein we drink and philosophize.
Lamentations of a Depressed Poet
Overcoming life's obstacles
A collection of Poems
Written Word Inspired by The Paris Review and The Paris Review Daily