What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons…
– Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons…
– Wilfred Owen
Doing poems is dangerous. All it takes is one line to get you hooked.
True, I wrote a limerick when I was a kid and now I’m begging for sonnets on skid row.
Here’s a free one to keep the shakes away:
How Do I Love Thee? By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Edit: Kind internet stranger pointed out to fix the formatting issue,
deleted by creator
Thank you kind internet stranger!
🥹
So you’re saying you have a serious prose-blem?
(I apologize in advance for this terrible pun)
You can’t apologize in advance after you do the thing you’re apologizing for. That’s just apologizing.