One thing's for certain: I've a surfeit of feeling lately.
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here
in the long unlovely street,
Doors,
where my heart used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp’d no more—
Behold
me, for I cannot sleep,
And
like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The
noise of life begins again,
And
ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam (VII)”]
I read this whole poem for a lit class in college--got through it by reading lengthy chunks out loud. To Beast.
ReplyDeleteAnd yet, he still married me. What a guy. ;-)
As for you: {{hugs}}
He's a good one. If I ever read something aloud in college, it would've been Edna St. Vincent Millay, for sure. Had I taken more than that one English class, of course....
ReplyDeleteIt would make a perfect story if I said we covered Poe that semester as well, but it was Brit Lit, so the next move was the Matthew Arnold... DEFINITELY out loud again.
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