'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.
In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.
Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.
And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.
Oh, Captain, My Captain!
-
Yes, I know that the heading, taken from the poem by Walt Whitman written
in 1865 following the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln has
nothing wha...
7 minutes ago
0 comments:
Post a Comment