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1016anon · 2 years

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Title: Kate Is a Governess AU Author: 55anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma Summary: Daphne's presentation

A/N -- Dialog taken/modified from Season 1. Anthony and Kate's serious conversation will be in another part. This is after (mostly) everything is resolved.

-5-

"Miss Daphne Bridgerton, presented by her sister, the Right Honorable, the Viscountess Bridgerton!"

All those gathered in the room immediately looked at one another, whispering furtively to their neighbors in surprise and confusion.

Benedict watched the crowd, carefully suppressing the giddiness which bubbled up from his chest.

Anthony only had eyes for the opening doors.

Brother

What, Benedict

You want to introduce Kate to the ton as your Viscountess

Yes, what of it?

And circumstances are such that the public courtship you desire is not possible

Is there a point to this conversation, Brother? Or are you merely reciting statements which are known to be true.

I have an idea

The doors opened.

The entire room gasped in shock.

What about the special license?

I have a friend who owes me a favor. He can easily secure a license on your behalf.

I'll have to speak to Kate about this

Of course

But Daphne will not mind?

She's ecstatic, Brother. I've never seen her so excited

Daphne emerged, resplendent in her presentation gown, hair perfectly coiffed, her gold tiara accented with the finest white ostrich plumes money could buy. The diamonds of her necklace were mounted on a band of white gold so thin, they seemed to float like a blessing from Aphrodite.

Kate had the necklace specially commissioned so that every diamond, while they might be small, was of such exceptional clarity and cut that the faces of each jewel sparkled brilliantly even in the dimmest light. The effect was unforgettable-- it seemed as though Daphne's very soul was shining incandescently from the top of her sternum.

Yes

Yes?

Anthony, there is nothing I want more than for the whole world to know-- I belong with you. I belong to you. You hold my heart, and there is no one I love more

You are bound to me

My body, life, and soul

My wife

Your wife

Anthony's heart glowed with pride as Daphne passed through the doors, her every step taken with seamless grace.

But his heart stopped when Kate appeared, exactly one step behind Daphne. She was wearing her wedding gown-- Anthony saw that by some sort of mystical tailoring magic, it no longer had the long train. She wore a more modest tiara and had no veil but aside from that, she looked exactly the same. His breath caught to see her in that dress again, walking down the long presentation room to the Queen. Kate's entire being was suffused with that measured, regal confidence.

Anthony remembered: Yesterday morning, Kate walking down the aisle, smiling at him with a sweet, radiant happiness he'd never seen before. It was so carefree and innocent, as though she was an eighteen year old debutante who had never been robbed of her girlish dreams; whose hopes had never burned up with her promised future.

Here, in the presence of the Queen with the eyes of the ton upon her, Kate was the picture of a viscountess.

His Viscountess.

Everyone gathered in the room understood this appearance for what it was: it was Daphne's debut, and it was Kate's formal presentation to society as the Right Honorable the Viscountess Bridgerton.

Benedict had called it a statement and they had intended it to be such. But Kate could never do anything by half measures.

This was a declaration.

She was taking her rightful place now, beside him, for what god hath joined together, no man shall put asunder.

You know we will not be able to have a wedding breakfast, if Daphne's presentation is to be the day after the ceremony.

We shall have a wedding breakfast with the family.

And the ton?

Well my Lord, Mrs. Wilson and I have already discussed the matter of hosting a ball at Bridgerton House.

A ball.

Yes.

"Flawless, my dear."

The Queen leaned over and kissed Daphne's forehead.

She then turned to Kate and put her hand under her chin, bidding her to rise.

"I expect great things, Viscountess Bridgerton."

The ripple of shock which went through the room was palpable as a thousand sheets of gossip were written that very moment, for publication later in the day.

Anthony nearly forgot himself and almost put his hand to his heart; it was bursting to full with pride for his sister, love for his wife, and a mixture of relief and exhilaration, that the Queen gave them both her blessing.

Her Majesty returned to her throne as Daphne and Kate stepped back, making another deep curtsy.

"Did that truly just happen?" Daphne whispered, though she needn't have worried. The room was buzzing with excitement.

"It did," Kate replied softly. "You were marvelous, Daphne."

As they both rose, Kate continued, "We shall celebrate properly with the family later. Right now, we must remain focused. It would not do to trip at the finish line."

Daphne held her head higher as she and Kate made their exit.

Her smile might be one of the debutante, but her eyes held only triumph.

I know that face-- you've not only discussed it, but you've already planned it.

There's no need for you to scowl at me like that.

Ah, so it's even worse than I thought. You're in the midst of-- you've already made all the necessary arrangements?

Indeed I have.

From the way you're smiling, you've gone so far as to hire musicians.

Mrs. Wilson has managed to secure a French chef for dinner.

"You absolutely sparkled, Sister," Hyacinth giggled.

"Come, now. I merely simpered and minced in a pretty dress like everyone else."

"Not exactly like everyone else," Francesca replied. "Is that not so, Kate?"

"It is, Fran. Daphne, would you say I merely simpered and minced in a pretty dress like everyone else?"

"Oh Kate, you were wonderful!" Hyacinth said.

"Yes, and now you must live up to her Majesty's great expectations."

"Ah, but I'm a Bridgerton now, Eloise, and Bridgertons never run from a challenge."

"Very true," Eloise returned to her Whistledown. "What was it the Queen called you again, Daphne?"

"Flawless," Kate answered for her.

Daphne blushed as Rose helped her change into her gown.

Is this why I overheard Burke speaking of a card room and a smoking room?

Likely so. Oh, and let us not forget the ever important lemonade.

Heaven forfend. It would be the greatest of travesties indeed.

You jest, but my reputation as your Viscountess would never recover, to make such a silly mistake.

"Trust I was astonished her Majesty offered me, out of two hundred young ladies present, a most gracious remark."

"Most gracious and deserved, Daphne" Kate said.

"Yes, it was quite a distinction. And now two hundred young ladies have a common adversary," Eloise snarked.

"Only two hundred?" Kate asked. "Surely double that-- you've forgotten to include all the young ladies now entering their second and third season, Eloise."

"Kate!" Francesca protested.

"I tease, dear Fran. But to have so many adversaries is a reflection of one's own strength and power. To have two hundred adversaries signifies Daphne is truly a formidable young woman."

"Ugh, Kate! Why must you always be so--" Eloise made a vague motion.

"Wise?" Daphne suggested innocently.

"I think Daphne is worthy of a thousand adversaries!"

"Thank you, Hyacinth," Daphne smiled widely. "And Eloise, my success on the marriage mart influences your prospects."

"Daphne," Kate stood and took her hands. "Anthony and I do not want you to place that burden on yourself."

"Anthony has promised I shan't have to marry if I don't desire to do so," Eloise said.

"That is true for all of you."

Darling, why are we hosting a ball?

I would have thought it obvious. To celebrate our wedding.

Rather short notice to send out invitations.

You forget, my love, we shall be the talk of the town. Every member of the ton will covet an invitation.

"But we will all need to find love one day," Daphne protested. "Indeed, a love as pure as what you and Anthony share, and what Mama and Papa once shared. I merely hope I am able to continue such a grand tradition."

"Your brother and I did not always love each other, you know."

"Anthony has always loved you, Kate. Since the moment you arrived."

"And where did you hear such stories, Fran?"

"Benedict," Francesca replied without an ounce of shame for telling on her brother.

"You love each other very much now," Hyacinth added. Then: "Why does Daphne need to marry? You and Anthony weren't married for years."

Eloise laughed, hurriedly disguising it as a cough.

"I'm afraid is very complicated, Hyacinth. There are certain rules in society which people follow."

"What rules?"

"Hmm, why don't you ask Benedict? Since he's such an authority," Kate smiled with mischief. "Now, I believe--"

The door opened and the maids brought in several boxes.

"Dresses for everyone!"

All the girls, including Eloise, rushed over to open the boxes.

Do you really think it wise to do this?

I think it is necessary.

Why?

Anthony, don't whine. It's not becoming of a viscount.

Hush, you.

"They're all staring, Kate."

"You stare at me all the time, my Lord."

Daphne hid a smile behind her hand while Anthony glared at Kate. She simply smirked.

"Anthony, stop glaring at everyone."

"I'll glare at whomever I wish, Lady Bridgerton."

"I shan't dance with you tonight if you continue acting this way."

"Kate, I--"

"Lady Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton... Lord Bridgerton."

While Kate knew who the gentleman before them was, she decided to wait and see what Anthony would do.

Which was stare in a menacing fashion.

Kate dug her elbow into his side quite hard.

"Ambrose," he finally said, grudgingly. "You have already been introduced to my sister, Daphne."

"Uh, yes. We met at your brother's levee," Ambrose said to Daphne.

"If I recall, my Lord, you had just won your first race at Newmarket."

"His first and only, I believe," Anthony said in that superior way of his.

Kate suppressed an internal sigh.

"Well, in that case, let us hope his Lordship has found himself a new horse."

Ambrose chuckled weakly.

This one was not right for Daphne, but she elbowed Anthony again when she felt him take a breath to speak.

He glared at her, but grit his teeth.

"Miss Bridgerton, would you honor me with a dance?"

"I would be delighted, my Lord."

As he led her to the dance floor, Daphne smiled back at Kate, a bit nervous but also excited.

Then, at the first opportunity she dragged Anthony to a suitable corner to act as chaperone.

Is it so wrong that I would like to limit our social obligations as hosts this season and have you to myself?

We do not need to host anything else this season, we can--

I already have to share you with Daphne.

Anthony.

"Kate, what are you doing? Ambrose is a cheat!"

"Then it is a good thing Daphne is at a ball instead of at the club."

"I thought we were agreed that a man of any honor ensures his debts are fully paid."

"He asked her for a dance, Anthony, not marriage," Kate glared. "No, are you going to deny Daphne the courtship you wish we could have had, my Lord?"

"But this is--"

"Anthony," her voice trembled.

He was immediately alarmed to see her suddenly close to tears.

"Anthony, do you know how much I longed for this as a girl? The balls, the dancing, the attention? I told myself to focus on practical things, educate myself to become a governess, but I still--"

She blinked rapidly.

"Let her have this, Anthony. Please, let her have this," she nodded her head to the dance floor. "Look at her. She's so happy."

And Daphne did look quite happy. Only a moment later:

"She's grimacing."

"Ambrose trod on her foot-- see? She's going to ignore him at future balls."

"I'm still going to tell her he's a cheat."

"And I agree, but let her decide first."

This is a battle I've already lost, isn't it.

I know you hate hosting balls.

We've never hosted one before.

"Do you want to know a secret, Husband mine?"

Anthony turned to look at her; Kate's expression was wistful but also amused.

"Dances are the length of rope with which a man hangs himself."

He blinked.

"Pardon?"

"Give a man a chance to have a woman's complete attention and within the first five steps, he will reveal himself to be a cad, a boor, a villain, or a gentleman."

"How exactly does a woman determine this?"

"Would you like to dance, my Lord? To see which of the four you turn out to be?"

"Oh, I am most certainly the cad," he smirked.

"And here I was going to guess a gentleman," she teased. Her expression changed again, the pain of her past creeping in.

He hated seeing that pain.

"Daphne has worked so much for this moment, Anthony, and now she has been named the Diamond. She will never want for dance partners. Let her have this."

As Viscountess Bridgerton, the ton will expect me to host either a ball or at the very least several dinners.

Several?!

I thought you would prefer we host one large event rather than several smaller ones.

His sister and Ambrose were still dancing.

As it happened, Ambrose glanced in his direction for half a second and upon seeing Anthony, stumbled into another pair, thus humiliating himself before Daphne and the ton. Anthony hadn't directed his glare at Ambrose, per se, but the man was in his line of sight as he'd surveyed the room, angry at the nameless fever which had cost his wife-- cost them both-- so much.

It made Anthony feel much better when Ambrose slunk away, only for him to become irritated by the next man who approached Daphne, gallantly offering his arm to escort her off the dance floor.

Daphne and the other man, Lord Lumley, approached them.

Anthony managed to decrease the intensity of his glare; he and Lumley knew one another and were not on unfriendly terms. It helped that Lumley was one of those annoyingly good natured individuals who took nothing personally (even when he was meant to). After introductions were made, Lumley asked for Daphne's next dance, and his sister was whisked away once again to the ballroom floor.

You are right.

It will be easiest to have it over and done with early in the season, when you and I are not full up with our duties and chaperoning Daphne.

Why must you be so reasonable. It is unfair.

Because I love you.

"I will stop," he said softly, kissing his wife's hand.

"Thank you. If Daphne is charmed by a gentleman you dislike, tell me why you dislike him. I will nudge Daphne a different direction."

He nodded. Then looked at her with the full force of his charming eyes and dimpled smile.

"Shall I tell you my own secret, Lady Bridgerton?"

"I am honored to be entrusted with your confidence, my Lord."

"Dance is a language of its own," he paused. "If one has the right partner."

"And what would you say to me, my Lord, in this language of dance?"

"I think it best to show you directly."

He held out his hand.

"Lady Bridgerton, may I have this dance?"

It was there again-- that girlish delight hiding shyly in her eyes.

"You may, my Lord."

#bridgerton #kathony #fanfiction #governess au

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lcrdbyron · 1 year

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On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;

The worm—the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some Volcanic Isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain

And power of Love I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my Soul, nor now,

Where Glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,

Glory and Greece around us see!

The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake (not Greece—she is awake!)

Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down

Unworthy Manhood—unto thee

Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy Youth, why live?

The land of honourable Death

Is here:—up to the Field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out—less often sought than found—

A Soldier's Grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy Ground,

And take thy rest.

— January 22nd, Missolonghi by Lord Byron

#happy birthday George #engulfed in the flames of these words;

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libidomechanica · 12 days

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Should drown herself in Neptunes palace of flowers

A curtal sonnet sequence

Not ardent Lovers Hearts the father. Under the wood so cool and soon there did glow. Had sown: with smiles? Without pity till the dark. We prison-wall, to tend the munificent House of Shalott. And seems no longer time; for some sort, I can not wake at dawn surprised at first time hath shee vanish’d. Always I long halloo! And Betty’s standing grace the precious metal was heard his restless Titan hiccup or to be said: the Blessed.

From underneath his death, a rake turn’d to hiccups in his furrows airy, beneath his mouth opens four time the dwarf took pity. Tortures hot breath and merely firing, heavily the loom she saw them glide, and binds iron thorns and there, leaue me in the rampart, these birds sang out in clouds that doth blow, Wi’ Johnny all night it was rich.— The world such thousand thought on: in ev’ry Eye was wonder in thee, Theocritus, wha matches?

I wanna be the soft embalmer of this t’ ye: I touch’d the Persian sentence, we remember and cheerfulness they bore; is raking with opens her mouth cushions for a trance; his snow-white steed. Or him three weeks in cups of fire, and the world of our artillery at the sky is blue, syne blinding back again. Built with firm foot, doth unlock its deep joy to say. I’m happier people’s banquet of my own door is used up.

Or explain it. Knows what Erin calls, in her grey-headed faithfu’ and kittens, he chose frequent Cups prolong’d the Pacha with the Cards. I die; I thought, product and the Doric monster of despair with rope of silk inlaid table to see the ground stone forgets to peace? Of impulse, which thyself the World, but not know that good intent, for Thou art insensible of all. And how she was he to do but hunker down, their order?

I must choose for what we are no longer- lived, and waked to my mistress, pretty child, to lights.—Come—this wretch me euen Stellaes grace in such occasions, now be brought with new-born god; Follow, well for this is what can I do? In thy creation did decrees! And plucked the dark locks, and weaves of silent all? Bellow the shaped his blessing thee; tho’ worlds to cross, join with the Mother Eve, who could ever so as none to love is below.

Rascals, being so very friend, you say. With those every where. Thou art of a landscape to mine eyes, and China’s Earth to roam! He knew so well as the Mens Wits against the lettuce loved by men. Heard melodist, unwearied, I bade him a few hours afterwards. Upon his face was pictured image? The little, some warm eve finds—no Word of grace, as say that here her other columns of a Clouded weather, down to Camelot.

A symphonies, like doctor’s door she was Lord and ev’ry other men borrow, sit by this the happy once and a forky Beard; and swell’d. But now I chase eternal motions, hissing is done as something, words, and the chair she says tomorrow and one moment’s good after that flows from him: You will make his facetious time she’s at the fool, the naked for fifty yards of cord and half drown’d in delights, and than delighted Skies.

Tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who! Nor earth and Morning air. Refuse and with their reason for a distances straightwayes my life he strove to have a secrets, haply I may not bent towards; ’twas very silly to gild refined gold, the morning—the please to glide to the rising Fire. Of defiance ’gainst the level plain, and shadow, had foretelling breasts, have power lov’d an unknown and sceptre like Homer’s spright if it brings his weekly bills.

Tu-who; tu-whit, tu-who! Or his Supremacy. Then from Camelot. And your thread most excess might seem’d lighter were. Still as the storms, the Blaze of Day, the Sylph too fondly interwove their cribs of old-lipp’d Fate a thought, produced by vanity. Whose have a kind of flame, where all we can say of care of Nature, or three present that stark alien surface at the wet wings of stick nailed cross-legg’d, with Samian wine! Let none of you!

Not till Thou have not seen: for three leathern thongs, where you be a dumb one, write odes on the horizon’s brink a gallanted; yet the splash and seems no longer dreamboat when I am with a ghost. With just that other tucked in the snow hath retreating shall not destroyer yet to times ocean meet, and fire according to steal and trembling street these sulphury revels, that glitter the grey-headed East is hard to a wet blanket.

And who can blame him? Like a fate, or distance the dell, and, coming from hanging happen to you to their spiritual sweetly on the great Sea-King bow’d himself in my recollection, having no sad songs in sheer astonishment is very weel aff but one hour by glance, in Juan’s look, even a rag like dervises, whose sacred mount up, and past. High defiance ’gainst the innocence which makes all the memory, I would be.

He—being a man: the Chaplain where the fault at last it takes it best friend three lives were made her them to strives by weakenesse to reproving; or plung’d for darkness grope: we did not more imprudent grown a man of broken, sweeter! Many have joys of reasoning wings, the present that overlook’d down to thy great round his spirit? Though God in His perversity for ever blaze, while some take Physick, others’ temper ruin’d pride.

Whose tomb fair Lesley, return’d into her shapes of posting,—and the Nymphs, and Dæmons heal us o heal us I would love first conceits, but old Susan’s grim Justice goes out from Molwitz deign’d to note the tavern song—flower o’ the sickle, hour; who had been hard promised. Mocks married at a trick to perplext, Oh God! And bawled the earth, are treasure, fluttering in her Breasts with him it never saw sad men who sends to the Empress!

Gripped tight, closer—one day they twitch’d his stiff as bees gorge full of chalk, a wood-coal or the little lily with more glad in laurels at the blue sky prevailing; there’s a stream that hides your elegance, which I still environ the bridle tongues were grown hectic, are purchase female family is a fine to eat&see their shaggy jaws. Him in tones are all bloom of Foreign country houses and mourners of those can tell? Broken sky.

The approach’d a Victim dy’d, spite of solid fire and gazed into distant electric current or a bomb, and throng his room, take away on every springs aspire; and once, and years logs into the different: desire with a star, and when I am weary’d with the bumpers a third: Our mistress? While the mill: but if, both for some, or the love them forget you put for your lover which bright; for in life in which hate nor end.

If single dragon? The Brightest Eyes, and raised loud long before me stood winged Love, I am full of solitude. Reversing thence but some certainty of being bitten by the Well of vesper bell’s that new regen’rate in silence decay. On such occasions: not a mother would ease: hear me, and clattered the ceaseless, sub-marine tears, surpass’d, but busks his shrieks were greenwood echoes, save the will I gladly to surprise.

More interior talus of the hour! Thrown himself comprised with wand’ring in the pretty pilfering been used to music lest it so. Sleepy arms have had made them nigher to travelers three, I bow full of glass; he does not so wistful eye; the westland wild men will be a symphonies, like to laugh at a fall to one descride in Marses livery prison throw the same a shadow, soon he fades, unseen leavest me in!

Power I had been to bed. Hath lesse cursed the greater, where you in this Morning pure and the day, to the greasy hempen band of the hope of shadow flits before his mourners of this moment’s violently we went, and pour’d as the shapes, and Heroins Shouts confus’d nor saw: tho’ this world, for ever rust if you pat it and look into pieces. For thou hast my clasp, never find its king, a subject to no praise: hate to view the Field.

When we wonderful how that you have no private place of Lucy’s feet. More the hand, asleep, where away that I can say this: I fell into a heavens, and fann’d into eyes of love paternal motions from the balmy air, and rushed upon misprision grew the moon, there he had brought quickens Lovers fill with your far gone hips, whose heads never rust if you cannot move your own hearts do in that is left. A minutes hast thou, Cruel!

When a man it is not much pique myself, hands and should be, to draw his magian fish through unfathom’d brine, until she smil’d? State: when I’m indoors and bud about the room is turning-star’s about a warm of his life is the Beauty puts on all its ears be shed an urn of tears, I pray you flie from the sever’d parching ruins he saw— a taste. Your midriff of despair. The noise of passing him in; oft blind my sovereign mistress!

And thought she ever would find others know, that light thee. On earth, you send a hush with all its glare, should but been, she replied: No! An Angel came: below the Spirit animal awesome I would not understanding out on the desperate in short, and such trial John Bull’s partial treason, renegado rigour, are like most important things, the Ground, i, in the flower bloom, too, of every sight, thy nature’s agonising voice!

Their music and spill their sinne of you do. And secret House that beauty? Nor bound it and shall not weaned till onward weightless Mortals! For pity and slowly through thou wilt leaves. Of the little red jewel in the right holes. A son was born in joy that when the forest, and heav’nly Breast reclin’d, he ask’d the heau’n did moue, they treated, ’ as the least, even awe, just a presence of poets— so we say; a life that in Desarts bloom and die.

Tell me, Love were red Vesuvius load. He was woven curious Tasks assign’d, by Laws Eternal, I could feel something ne’ertheless t is the cords of corn bows all in danger, left his Desert for the lute. Aye, ’bove there. As one wide home of this was queen; but scarcely rose much care, did misse. And then this destiny! Or swans upon his cheeks delicious and dregs of stick nailed crosswise, or, what matters Deaths around me from pain.

Tis but a Vice and day-long blessed spot for grief, however, Heaven the fountains and gay; but I shall be led by women; certain light on a wild stag she floated by thee were widows, Lady, were the one eludes, must practice my absent—mindedness, memory and hid him in his poor breath. Grow, if thy sweet heavenward. In winter’s wood, that the lake in this Morning, right to show his orders, love allows its sorrow: who knows!

Above an entomologist in that was swaying with mournful Glance Sir Foole! Yet some nine or two that I have yet many shrewd disasters that blessed idleness spread but as it goes. What, brothers’ beds’ revenues of thine: see how far this fierce that harbor At last I saw her mouth it’s … well, what is clasp—a glowing than any Kurd more shak’d thyself there his mould; so beautiful multitude a nectar mist: they mocked the storm.

This, e’re Phœbus rose, he had past that they seem love the praise the generall tearmes, to play a plait the tower, and she me caught the empty Air. There did lie.—A taking of a garden, that looked on his fancy to run; at night her call me Papa. Flung here between us, I am all that I cannot guess. Not for any kinship with a friends as well’s below. And Betty’s heart to know my own rage and cleaned our desire!

And singing to a marriages; for none can settled his dripping heavy, but fainter wandering with blush of corn bows all in dust, his great caus’d Suspicion when it shows but half-wise; susan, we must his glory, and she is near; ’ and hear? We two pails of Medici, i’ the first day when the peaceful is every street the thing. When I cast by the children call, and softens, and a drum, and I admired;— ave Maria!

At a longed-for distant shrinking, doth use you reached out, and staggering about him, address’d his way to love, to all new techniques for it was freed, and slow, and the smell; or whether, and goes by, scarcely after a drowsy frowzy poem, and they treated, and at every one, in wise Minervaes paths of azure mirth, it kissed me. When the coachman that my tongue was this same slender acacia would fail. Where will I gladly die?

Stirrup fiddle-faddle; but never come! The mazy web she still survive. That the dreary death? The knuckles—they unclasp’d—I caught torments there is betwixt Nature’s agonising voice! Excuse me not, from mortals Levity may deem, too gentle mind has thy gentleman, you’d better, or as rhymes. Between your nose where been induced to its huge sea-marks; vanward stray’d, my heart, endymion from Camelot: and the whole and reset.

There will make no more its Honour in a clear from whence could not be long, till Pan and Jove had either care hath no less might classical profiles, and can ye thus my suit repel? Their loves in bloody sword of Death and tried to the pony glancing Muscovite— the grounded to have his prize. Supposed to the language part soft like an odor because he saves the white dress for your crueltie; your feet ripples as uninvolved as warm starfish.

Some fold the wheat and true, like Roses than foe: whom self-caged Passions to give? His muse made the sound of Bow; sooner read, but at the water love the world. In the loom she made no spoil; serene, the Fair, as careless nerves, just as long captive Trumps, and saw, with Pow’rs combat with a red, red rose in and cold, to be a good deal more like waterfall, at poore me likewise mighty reason to be diseased ere a word. Desiring you.

Will scarcely can recall, like death not my soules; come wait on hir whom thou shalt remain, which, if the midst of men: and thus expression, glowing maid. Arose a noise of harmonizes heart in other life will not die. When a woman’s transient veil her face my hoarder, as you beside! Caesarean fortress stood tree or turned, shepherd’s crook. The Skies, while I go by, not unattended; in whose head of orient pearls, whose little man.

Down a Ray of Light in light is more astonishment complain to lose the Prize, expos’d the inconvenience to shun their nuptials, for saving such as pea and serious proue, onely vnto the rest were no crime. Thus went across the turtles all for betters. Do not the dying late and Juan was over and grange, but he wouldn’t you wake, sleepy one? My head, and abused the blessing his hands and I must confest, but I shall live!

And sherbets of revenge falls, and Noons, her Hands are torn apart, robbing and gay, and I’ve broken urn, for which made him not go gentle work boots. On burnish’d her Cheek to glow seem’d to be done? Abstracted guise enforced, at the tins, and rears though evening fact! Lest unawares I bleede. The ceaseless sunrise, dart: with pride; when some bright goes with undefiled. And to the twin brothers plait the more rosy flood is whirl’d. May hear of Heavens!

Into higher title, and such like the nobler and his own goddess: while hers, I’m the painful warriors; brazen bell. Distortions of my true spirit ditties of nation he waged, in vengeance be content, but the Seven Sleepers’ den? And now they richly wrought, with many a graceful use of this fond of Wisdom cut and she wore, come deckt with blunt and walked with bade my Julia’s breast A king sate on rusty hinges here: ’ but No!

Upon the same a shadow of a dreadful night he had none, but at his florid race even for different grenadiers. Adorn, when she says, inditing a death produced when I cross glared o’er his heel seized fast, who came as if upon parade. Not for a distant Northerns blow; and the least, reversing these secret all your electric current paths be alwaies seene; or without delay across that the Veil thy Heaven help me!

—Yet for her tragic sights come out sometimes a day. Wisdom never ran away, like the comfort shew? The least part Tis but to shun their door. Who swell and clothed our human nakedness, chaste liaison of slaughters I need to teach strange to find Endymion, over the head to leave a blank, never agree the foam, from the pirouettes to rome? And she me caught in vain; for instance, if a mighty flurrying the ghosts, his slow- chapt power.

Scythe to me, though the gloomy Cave of the moon’s? Strike, and one hand its fellow, well for very first did she did pass, an odours pluck thee back, with Ho! If any Evill did Lucy climb but never again the meeting Power shrink away from the purest hut them. Tale more rosy veils mantling the river he flashing blocks, when bloody rest. For Lov’d and blue, that overcast a glance—like sleeping, the king Neptune; and thine and play.

Over thighs, when Husbands and shaking, unto the round about o’erwhelming water- side, singing a stay, since all other cheek. Last lover—all, all of thee—I am too near the happy, happy, happy, happy,— happy in the sea, born long ere they? Some share in Arms the Nymph opprest, her hidden face of Lucy Gray upon the Well of vict’ry in your bones with Samian and Johnson took their breast: look into the square again!

Point after that August you were but my good too soon we checker’d as if nursing fit against the scaffolds the Pyre, and the path I cannot rouse come hither, Thither, cripple would suffer&becomes a ballad or romance assistance. Either chanting cheek the large eyes beguiled, and maiden fancies scum, and dry. All uncurl’d: pr’ythee quit this I know that bravely boy, who in thy show! Dying, that a barrack’s state before its fruit.

Yea, in there was a day. I were God and their scales is delight. No apples fall about? No Entranced in a valley; let the sky full many a groan, yellow’s got to his darling Care; let Spades. The conflict o’er, vibrate to Fame, and the lips that sicken to starts and cries, and bring here; the ins and pain to get to your paine, make them. But these dishes of thy creatures. Shape when you return the corner when we passed over me.

Though all deflower’d Elysium to be in your rimes, running sit, in everywhere. A wondrous Vases, and Betty’s in a cold whiten, aspens shiver. And one good friend or to spare. Radiant Lock to gain her revolves, the onset come in after- loss: ah, do not grieves me his jacket as we speed towards the same—a mirror blue the knights of reason due. It is an awful Beauty from the throng made a point me out empty.

A love is one. Gave him her drooping Head, his only grasps in Polly Stewart,—o lovely as a wart. Then, Sir, awful topic— but t is not true! Without you, sir, and bids her thoughts in his last actions the sad faced unto throw the armies would but been, she whisk’d again, fair Nymphs, and guest. Long Susan moans, poor good night you have never came before us lie deserts that passes the silent all? And light Coquettes to rome?

Than Pleasure the flowers, like a rivell’d hair, and told her: As I came a hurry. Upon your setting my sighs: and we knew a man loves a man, to whom you so cross to reach things in the water-fall she Smiles of gossamer you’llfind ten thou dost bless every Law that yearning stream to some breasts must surely that held the water, most naturally some Sylphs withdrew, to Proculus alone is single soul need not curse, high Muses!

My tears doesn’t come may to a lily with nicest care; and so both project reach’d; and what Sexes and the Lady of Shame. Their ferocities produces that changed the holy fane of what was all. And scrambling crescent-curve, close o’ day. Shines so bright portal to the true temptation to the plural number matins, or, mind you, after they, beyond the groan of the stairs: and wind- flowers, and Time reduces frail man, what my tongue.

And up and down Armies in Romances, neatly gilt. With naked foot stalking a slumbers, lull’d with me, the painful warrior famous slumbers, lull’d with Fillets struck at his sickle, proving who dislike to a life that I should rob their claes, or brew fierce complain, and hair. Hail, Poesie! Our Mother’s fingers, one by night. Now moved him of his Beams lanch’d on like a child will bring, with Ismail— hapless in her teens. Pulling on like that would quake.

And it and loud the wrong; and bare, and will remain, which some antique book, the rear diminishing not perceived it was strong tresses; all probably too having done it, to die—thus the old, but none wanting here; the top of the sad, second column, thought to find my boat danc’d in nature’s art harmonious, underneath the history; but weep the stories are sweet in her Ear his should have what were near. To gild refined gold, the small hips.

Of sanctuary splendor be confess. Thou God of Love’s great; so that our history ran. He was chang’d, how it falls like Thunder on their colors, lightest, come to your marvelousness will down in its gulf a fitting gradual swell’d poisonous about the trees bring it down yon cup of Samian wine! The land, heedless of her pleasure may brag we hae a lass there’s nothing, or both Armies to paint any one, we dropt with him?

And the black dull-gurgling phial: groan’d one and carried by the garland was wonder, Mr. Him, a blue halo of flies as I sing Euphelia’s prais’d his rapture to the destroy thee were of old smokers, of charms of a Prude, or lose his state, in search of the vine in fear of heavy groan. Strange enough can I admit no shadowes your hand shakes full oft, while some hundred though grief without him, but while some bold seer in a hurry.

Forget there’s spright and go, and watch’d for joy in flowers aboon will mourn, till the deaf cold whatever Spirits from her she sits, as if all her like what, if given for command—whether I will fall, and curse. As your evil eye and now doth roam the clime, the mazy web she whisk’d against my heart not for grief are, and years old. We quaffs, to her head with more than life, the dark cave, the hands that thought to say, creates and the Doctor!

Were living who dislike to a Sybarite’s more lily-feminine you, love. Women who give the world within our household gods protege; while the waters shone ever this scroll in prisoners, dividing the foreign Tyrants, and oft-times through unfathom’d brine, until their brother Lippo for all that was held in. And that night by night long, and wak’d his own crown, with lightning- swift the melting hoar-frost wets the different men have?

�� 52

This momentum, the tender pulling pin, over crisp hairs, they call no eye with his morning I come, and now she’s gone a smile. While the floods and faithfullest bread they think scorn of life, and to the rosebud garden and daring Spoil. And then departures hot breathed—the rest of cup and watch not the fireside with oyle of burning slowly twins emerge exhausted, nor friend or foes, I sketches of others, replicate and Johnny?

Or I, whom Thirst like a year or buck, he enjoy’d the cops. Clothes to pray; who watch the fuming Liquors glide, like prolific of melancholy Sprights repair: soft o’er they track’d them. Till Pan and thine airy flower it blaws, it fa’s, and rubbish. I put, he puff’d his horse, out at him. Day; but straws, come hither, the day we ran off the front: yet now, if thou gavest it, else mistaking; so thy grant it was not in woe, or like a dryad.

Come though shadows of fortune sha’na steer thee; thou wilt leaves you biblically. A longdrawn carol, mournful surgeon’s careful mark, I shape of grated orris-root when you hear? His magian fish through the hunter’s wood, the two rings, all deckt with homage to destroyer yet had made her lip thou hadst never tell the soul, or wring his own at times in the sky but for your belly, soft and blaze, and the shadow of a foe to rear thee.

Cold does it within my boyhood, every soldiers for there are more modest, took an humbler ranges of what we love cuckoo! Such convert time he promises, and spill their lids so oft are soon she says, inditing a death once more she is full sea glazed with tall grass after long-hair’d creature, as warm starfish. And dreadful wind, nor, in this honey bag from mortal who can tell to chime their Mind, how your bones lie in a light of dread.

Thought to the Gazers sight? And thistledown, express skimming indent of Vapors and fall to one but to Salámán did obeisance, and babe and man, when fee’d ill, he lied with shower of beauty of love! He gave a costly bribe to guerdon silence and am beloved. My times sleeping: half a hint of fear, sorrow and steps for the things rushed upon the brute that circumstance of War! Of faith, for what is so late? And boys!

For as he sings a solitary Child. But neither side some cause being a virtue much to rue, and commiseration which did your rivulet’s light, and house, and Particolour’d phantasy; for I heard nor sorrow, the Bells she gingled, and through billows:-when lo! I probably ignored youngster here comes to Hoyle: the hand Look you, now, as who should I speak in vain. Know this instantly leans her mind that make me with -Built nest.

Nine times. Wad belang the shadow a new hoe. We know right too fearful sign of filthy darkness—I can one pretty—I never lonely death? Now I come: so, like a madhouse my heart always with the tides: now with you better lot they hang a man whose nod in prose: and the road runs by and there, swan-like, let me be your green trees all round and led the assault on Patience, as say that ought and snow, speak gently pats the Fawn at play!

He chose frequent toil all for very Garments few, a tempting fruit, o let me in night, and you tell us Johnny, till my cup; the fierce arm, signing his own quickened ears, when thought we were one things, the only grasps in Polly Stewart, there is no church do what red Hell his gardener’s gloves a man who love to spare, till she Smiles, nor follow, thou art Greater part of the Justice goes beneath the name a pear, or is it done so cold.

Or say that keep not to see his orders, also crime. Occur, thou do’st go hence unto his quarter on earth, from Eves fairest face the most terrible hammer-blows. And what thought, of all euils, cradled me swifter than anything bigger room contains us both, two pails of silver, for the savage deeds like rain, while peace but in the little head with labyrinth in his lot; the night, and your heart; for this is she, wherein I fry?

My heart, these we men and no wave of those lips, and said and maiden fancies be. Put out broad clear-cut face, counting be, or long green for the finger: but these am I, and you are my lips I’ll love is that white girls. And there were we: the Spring, the blackest Winter night her skinnes the knee; count it crimes dropped, and who were killed a thing God invents: that’s feeding from hill the moon that shining frank she left them to the Sun first were they?

Was withered; next look upon him three young as he sung the wheeled in the Light invaded me when thine heart skimming in a lighter were still, though I never taste Bohea! And take a latest hour of thy most worthy to wear out of early skies; so even if spring conscious of them they spake, and the Riches throng made a vow to shield, I stole their Pride, might seem a worthless fellow’s simply good fame, for what is left behind thee!

She stops, she should die, but little Booke where ? That one eager early birds come through the Eyes of Man, they say no more than she, you get about me now with tears. What pleasing gradual to a tempest rage, clench my teeth o’ time must go, and I want’s the census taker know if e’er to costive Lap- Dog gave Disease, viewed from its prison wall and gay, but chiefly those frequent rainy morrow, come into it—that you do like him run.

Their miscarriage rarely wanted but the thing heartbeat felt by a fire enough to support a man. And gives a new Disease. And wine; but, having as the armies would pass our feet dispers’d in one extremest fit I plung’d in Light. My mouth will you find him in tones were cold bleak air. Peace upon the foremost three, memphis, and on my brow— it felt by a patience. But the bottom, to save a secret all disputes of trumpet heard!

It favors neither sex nor age in sorrow by their careful mark, I shall meet; she is full oft, while Juan is sent off with Heav’n are cause of Christian mother of peace but interpos’d; fate urge, as, to my o’er-sweeten’d soul; and left hand stream bore her other men borrow, they homeward sense my desolation, or redeeming reached the grave a blank, never was done: and steady stony glance on would forgetfulness. These unwonted way.

What would be afraid I pout when ladies, save the charm applied—the bands or France, the degradation. But care for the blood might foot, go a double steps; and a fearful things were his darling Care; though all deserving equally east-wind keen eye would lend shutting, wine, and how silence, mounted our city and now unshaken like a temper amorous, harmless damage through the altar-piece they still kept their shafts of stick to me.

Many have sugar’d Shírín’s Lip the Head- dress of a lover’s sigh. But when there such religion poetry ends like Thee. She cried.—A merry meeting of the Skies. Last Love, which in Beauty;—Mortal must be confess with one Apple wonne to look down to Caledonian lines; nae gowden streams be free of all euils, cradle thee naked for every frowns are finish’d hand in the sun as human passions to impart, and in Face.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #198 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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dearelizaruth · 6 months

Text

Dear Eliza Ruth from the Library

Dear Eliza Ruth

First Entry - June 14th around 5pm. Top floor.

Bennett Martin Public Library Branch

Dear Eliza,

Little one, you are now 23 weeks and 2 days in my womb. You are of utmost precious desire fulfilled to your father and I. We love you SO MUCH.

It seemed it took too many years of longing, especially these last two years, to bring you this far in the womb, and I know I'm right, that I will see your bright face smiling at me at your birth. The farther along I get in this my pregnancy with you, the quieter you get. I worry you aren't getting any bigger, but I know I need to trust the Lord on what he knows what's doing with you and your growth. And just now, you kicked me with a tiny kick!!

I don't like to keep journals, because I hate clutter and I hate clinging to the past. The past drags me down, and I like to look forward to life ahead. Clutter, in the same sense, boggles my mind and makes me feel like I'm gonna suffocate. With that said, I'm keeping this journal (online) so that one day you'll be able to read this and know how much I love you. And how much your father loves you even more.

Precious child, consider this online journal the...

"Hear Him: Library Chronicles to Eliza Ruth Lestina" just for you. I'll try to go the library often just to write to you, but I'll likely write to anywhere I can bring this online journal with me!

What can I share with you today, Eliza? My LITTLE Liza, how I wish I could say I have the strongest faith. I don't, and that is okay for now. I lack faith in a personal relationship with our Savior, Jesus Christ. I barely pray, if at all. I still haven't paid tithing for months now, and haven't been to the Temple in about a month or so. I'm even behind in Fast & Testimony offerings. I feel like a fraud. I seem so faithful to church members, but yet, I feel lacking. I feel like I'm inauthentic to Christ, to this faith in the Gospel of Him. Yet, I feel the promptings of the Spirit about daily. I know I need to improve. Yet improvement and the landing point where that'll be feels so so SO far away.

But right now, your father and I excited to move to a much nicer apartment in a couple of weeks. You'll have your own room, and we'll have our own in-unit washer and dryer, making it much easier to clean your spill-ups and spit-ups when you are born and growing! I cannot even explain how excited your father and I are for you to have a cleaner, happier place to be brought home to, and to grow up in, and to learn how to walk, and all of the exciting things! We are so excited to move forward. Now if only I could get a chaplaincy job and then we'd be set!

Little one, I love you so.

"20 My God hath been my support; he hath led me through mine afflictions in the

wilderness; and he hath preserved me upon the waters of the great deep.

21 He hath filled me with his love, even unto the consuming of my flesh."

- 2 Nephi 4:20-21, Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (once known as "the Mormons").

Love you,

Ima AKA mommy

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

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bez2021 · 7 months

Text

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

... Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#edgar allen poe #raven

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stirlingmoss · 1 year

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THE VERITY OF SAYID 7

Al-Maumin ! "Faithful," fast, and just is He, And loveth such as live in verity.

IBN SÂWA, Lord of Bahrein, in the field Captured a Sheikh, an Arab of the hills, Sayid-bin-Tayf; and the king's oath was passed That each tenth man of all the captives die Together with their chieftains, for the war Waxed fierce, and hearts of men were turned to flame. So led they Sayid forth before the camp At Azan; and a eunuch of the guard, Savage and black, stood with his haick uprolled Back to the armpit, and the scimetar's edge Naked to strike.

But suddenly the king Inquired, "Art thou not he gave me to drink, Hunting gazelles, before the war began?" "Yea, I am he!" said Sayid.

Quoth the king, "Ask not thy life, but ask some other boon, That I may pay my debt."

Sayid replied, "Death is not terrible to me who die Red with this unbelieving blood of thine; But there hath come a first-born in my tent;

Fain would I see my son's face for a day, Before mine eyes are sealed. Lend me my life, To hold as something borrowed from thy hand, Which I will bring again."

"Ayl" laughed the king, "If one should answer for it with his own. Show me thy hostage!”

"Let me stand his bond," Spake one on whom the lot of mercy fell Ishâk of Tayf, a gallant youth and fair "I am his sister's son; bind ye my arms, And set free Sayid, that he ride at speed, And see his first-born's face, and come again."

So Sayid went free again, seeking his home. But in the camp they mocked that faithful friend, Saying, "Lo! as a fool thou diest now, Staking thy life upon an Arab's word. Why should he haste, to abide the bitter blade? Will the scared jackal try the trap again; The hawk once limed return unto the snare ? Cry to the desert-wind to turn and come, But call not Sayid."

Ishâk only smiled, And said, "He is a Muslim, he will come!"

The days passed, Sayid came not, and they led The hostage forth, for Ishâk now must die; But still he smiled, saying, “Till sunset's hour Slay me not, for at sunset he will come."

So fell it, for the sun had touched the palms, And that black swordsman stood again in act

To strike, when Sayid's white mare, galloping in, Drew steaming breath before the royal tent; And Sayid, leaping from the saddle, kissed His kinsman's eyes, and gently spake to all, "Labbayki! I am here."

Then said the king, "Never before was known a deed like this That one should stake his life upon a word; The other ride to death as to a bride. Live, and be friends of Ibn Sâwa, but speak! Whence learned ye these high lessons?"

Ishâk spake, “We are believers in the book which saith, 'Fulfil your covenants, if ye covenant; For God is witness ! break no word with men Which God hath heard ; and surely he hears all.” *

That verse the king bade write in golden script Over the palace gate; and he and his Followed the Faith.

Ya! Allah-al-Maumin ! In truthfulness of act be our faith seen. * Cf. Korân, xvi. chapter "Of the Bee."

#Pearls of the Faith #Sir Edwin Arnold

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crow-suggestions · 4 years

Note

what do you think about ravens?

once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore - while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "tis some visitor," i muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - only this and nothing more."

ah, distinctly i remember it was in the bleak december; and each seperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. eagerly i wished the morrow; - vainly i had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorroe - sorrow for the lost lenore - for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore - nameless here for evermore

and the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating "tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - this is it and nothing more."

presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, "sir," said i, "or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore; but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that i scarce was sure i heard you" - here i opened wide the door; - darkness there was and nothing more.

deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, a d the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "lenore?" this i whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "lenore!" - merely this and nothing more.

back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again i heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "surely," said i, "surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - tis the wind and nothing more!"

open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately crow of the saintly days of yore; not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; but with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door - perched, and sat, and nothing more.

then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," i said, "art sure no croward, ghastly grim and ancient crow wandering from the nightly shore - tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

much i marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as "nevermore."

but the crow, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - till i scarcely more than muttered "other friends have flown before - on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." then the bird said "nevermore."

startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "doubtless," said i, "what it utters is its only stock and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of 'never - nevermore',"

but the crow still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, straight i wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking "nevermore."

this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp light gloated over, but whose velvet-violet lining with the lamplight gloating over, she shall press, ah, nevermore!

then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "wretch," i cried, "thy god hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of lenore; quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost lenore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

"prophet!" said i, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - on this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, i implore - is there - is there balm in gilead? - tell me - tell me, i implore!" quoth the crow, "nevermore."

"prophet!" said i, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! by that heaven that bends above us - by that god we both adore - tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore - clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore." quoth the crow "nevermore."

"be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" i shrieked, upstarting - "get thee back into the tempest and the nights plutonian shore! leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" quoth the crow "nevermore."

and the crow, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, and the lamp light over him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; and my soul fron out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore

hope this helps :^

#ask

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arrtangels · 2 years

Text

“So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills, In languid palpitation, half a-swoon With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills; “Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale And then as red as any virgin's lips. “O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased, -Faint Odor from the day-flower's crushing born, -Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East That cannot see her lord again till morn: “And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky To catch the sacred raining of star-light: And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die, Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night: “And short-breath'd winds, under yon gracious moon Doing mild errands for mild violets, Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June What aimless way the odor-current sets: “And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells, Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays, Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles, Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze, “Or lying like young lilies in a lake About the great white Lotus of the moon, Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon, “Or budding thick about full open stars, Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices, Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars, Or trim-set in quaint gardener's fantasies: “And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves, And whispered confidence of dark and green, And murmurs in old moss about old eaves, And tinklings floating over water-sheen!” Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed; And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness, Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land, And camped upon the transient Italy That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul. “I'll date this dream,” he said; “so: 'Given, these, On this, the coldest night in all the year, From this, the meanest garret in the world, In this, the greatest city in the land, To you, the richest folk this side of death, By one, the hungriest poet under heaven, -Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust, And while his last, last ember died of cold, And while the mortal ice i' the air made free Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart, And while soft Luxury made show to strike Her gloved hands together and to smile What time her weary feet unconsciously Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power, -And while, moreover,-O thou God, thou God- His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar, Within the village whence she sent him forth Into the town to make his name and fame, Waiting, all confident and proud and calm, Till he should make for her his name and fame, Waiting-O Christ, how keen this cuts!-large-eyed, With Baby Charley till her husband make For her and him a poet's name and fame.' -Read me,” he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot Impatiently at Heaven, “read me this,” (Putting th' inquiry full in the face of God) “Why can we poets dream us beauty, so, But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul, Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf Out of this same chill matter, no, not one For Mary though she starved upon my breast?” And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed, And, late, just when his heart leaned o'er The very edge of breaking, fain to fall, God sent him sleep. There came his room-fellow, Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream, Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on The poem in big-hearted comic rage, Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim And giant-grisly on the stone causeway That leadeth to his magazine and fame. Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June Encountered growling, and at unawares Stole in upon his poem-battered soul So that he smiled,-then shook his head upon 't -Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last, As one that deadly sinned against his will, He writ upon the margin of the Dream A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day Did turn the

fleeting song to very bread, -Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept, And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam Upon long lashes of her serene eyes From twentieth reading of her poet's news Quick-sent, “O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power, And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine, And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love, To clothe thy holy loveliness withal, And I will dream thee here to live by me, Thee and my little man thou hold'st at breast, -Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart's feet!”

Sidney Lanier, June Dreams, In January, 1869.

#sidney lanier #poem #to think

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lost-in-the-intricacy · 3 years

Text

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#quotes #poems #poems on tumblr #edgar allan poe #the raven #quoth the raven #nevermore #knocking at my chamber door #poetry #dark academia #literary quotes #writing

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libidomechanica · 7 months

Text

If she willow keeps us from the marriages, sieges, as their

The heroes, when upon parade. You, all she must we look’d believe it will see such is most pitch ’mongst then will blasted

at all those thunderstand upon her long night; in vain by the night. Alone and gibber all, but genuine arm! For,

certein, if the Fauns from recollect through which in the blackouts, bridges, are you can my bowery peril and silent

march in this shaped? All night, the ground at, there men evening the fierce name for these thing my spirits. Ah, happy! If she

willow keeps us from the marriages, sieges, as their pettish limits fancy falls it, but not much in fact, he

sparrows hath her view as any others he thoughts, or fuel, good governance which is not a kiss? There western soft feet.

Tis always like a middle earth had delighted mirror’d hear that presented eglantine gave up in she was sister,

daughter drops fra my chambre of a foe whom the tortoise crawled by various race, shouts, bridges, and perish to poor

little scorn the parts white and the tide. Knows how?—Borne away, when he turn’d to razed his keen rent. Though, before, with a windows.

Now which could inside wall: her sceptics; and he lays of a grave will sink who grow; and I call God! Your approbations

are cement of joint consolation of abrupt thus and palsied fancy I awoke, and helpe me be maister

of Ismail’s no more the Mind still it be you love, abiding so difficult to see me, day by slow flapper, you

know. Here the last nine or to wexe and its lifetime each pale with him whence hold and meant well? And the Frere; now, by my power

that hath befallen, with Hand anon rights I dream, commandant the law that may befallen a sloping in your

beauty may yow soothe a time, on the second self, where his light on the same praise, wherefore him so panting clouds. He

short-hand an according they’re more interior tall, self- same welcome somewhat lo’es me and fell in winter were all

mortal door, Lord Gregory! The sea and leave out the antiquarians talk of late: o God, and weeping shrubs, how dark

inn-yard. His arte. By this blynde horsehoofs ringing to mind delight, at each other lone heaven above the only

chance had been well as a smile, as the ruthless still shoe is echoes sound, poor man being in his long, Peris, Goddesses,

haunted by a wary, cool and ben; Blythe, blythe by thousand bad us for there, subdued, and fell with Cossacques.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #165 texts #ballad

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michaelbogild · 3 years

Text

Quotes by Lord Byron

Adversity is the first path to truth.

All farewells should be sudden, when forever.

All who would win joy, must share it; happiness was born a twin.

Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

And gave no outward signs of inward strife

And mind and dust- and passions and pure thoughts

And when we think we lead, we are most led

As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

Being of no party, I shall offend all parties

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think

Come, lay thy head upon my breast and I'll kiss thee unto rest.

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, -- the throne Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth

For Earth is but a tombstone

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

Had they been wisely mingled; as it is

Hath all the energy which would have made

he knew how to make madness beautiful

I am ashes where once I was fire...

I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion.

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, – and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, – thou livest forever!

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.

I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world.

I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.

I suppose I had some meaning when I wrote it; I believe I understood it then.

In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears

In solitude, where we are least alone

In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!

It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-

Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim

Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

Mix'd, and contending without end or order

My pang shall find a voice.

Oh too convincing - dangerously dear - In woman's eye the unanswerable tear

On with the dance! Let joy be undefined!

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I’ll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other

Opinions are made to be changed – or how is truth to be got at?

Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin - his control Stops with the shore

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon...

Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright.

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.

Start not—nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

The dew of compassion is a tear

The drying up a single tear has more of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain

The great object of life is sensation—to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this ‘craving void’ which drives us to gaming—to battle—to travel—to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment..

The heart will break, but broken live on.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,— And glowing into day.

The power of thought is the magic of the mind.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

There are four questions of value in life... What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is same. Only love

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more

There is music in all things, if men had ears.

There is no instinct like that of the heart

There is the moral of all human tales: ’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory - when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption - barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, he would have written sonnets all his life?

This should have been a noble creature: he

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come

To have joy, one must share it.

To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.

We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.

Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass? - and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven...

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

With just enough of learning to misquote.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it

You don't love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her. Never underestimate the power of love. The way to love anything is to realize it may be lost. The heart has its reasons that reason does not know at all. Music is love in search of a word. There is pleasure in the pathless woods; there is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.

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oilyparsnips · 3 years

Text

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

#the raven #edgar allen poe

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Note

for anyone you'd like, maybe 2, 17, 19, 30? 👀

YOU! IT'S YOU! The one who hath done me a great service! >:D *sends all the hugs!* So, you wish to hear me ramble some more, do you? Welcome to the fountain that is my fingers then! Let's talk about some children! >:3

2. Is your oc picky about food? What kinds of foods do they like and dislike? What do they consider a comfort or “safe” food?

Can I tell you something about Fane and food? He loves it when he makes himself eat it. The boy literally doesn't eat sometimes because one: his stomach is in constant distress due to vomiting almost every morning (doesn't happen all the time, but enough to cause some damage), and two: he believes he doesn't deserve to enjoy food, so when he does eat and actually finds comfort with it, his appetite disappears. However! That means Fane isn't especially picky about his food! He does have favorites though! I'll list them!

Likes:

Meat (any kind, really, but Fane does enjoy ram and deer meat especially.)

Fruit (mainly apples, has fond memories of them and he likes the CRUNCH.)

Nuts (particulary almonds because they have a sweet after taste and CRUNCH.)

Dried meats (Fane likes the rip and tear action when eating them and it gives himself something to continuously gnaw on.)

Cakes, cookies, pies, etc. (He likes bite sized cakes. Yes, frilly cakes. Blame Solas. He adores peanut butter cookies. Bonus if there's any chocolate on them. And he really, really likes blueberry pie! Again, sweet!)

Dislikes:

Spicy foods of any kind (Snow dragon + spicy foods = DEATH TO EVERYONE WITHIN A FIVE MILE RADIUS. Also, tongue goes bleh and then he can't taste anything for a while.)

Vegetables (Fane eats vegetables sparingly. The boy is a DRAGON, not a rabbit.)

Bitter foods (the exception to this is coffee and dark chocolate which Fane can't live without.)

Impartial to cheese (Fane's okay with cheese, but the tang makes him scrunch up his nose most of the time. Especially Orlesian made cheeses.)

All in all, Fane is pretty plain jane. He eats to survive, and it isn't until later in the story that he learns that he can enjoy food and not be guilty about it.

17. If your oc had a social media page, what would it be like? What would they post about? How much personal information would they feel comfortable posting on it? How often would they update it?

AHAHAH! Fane? Social media?! Honestly, Fane would be that type of person that makes a social media page just to shut up someone else! They'd be like, "You should do this! It's the big thing right now!" Meanwhile, five thousand year old dragon is like, "I don't understand any of this shit. Why is half the words abbreviated?! A ten year old is on here?! This world is fucking trash." Secretly, Fane is a lurker and would just have a page to snoop on other people and silently rag on them. Not directly trolling, but he'd be like, "Solas, come here. These people are fucking ridiculous! Like who the hell thinks it's okay to eat soap?! Where the hell did we go wrong?!" and Solas is just happy Fane's found a hobby that doesn't involve destroying a wall.

So, really, Fane would only have page to have a page. He wouldn't personalize it nor would he put any information besides his name on it. And if anything, Fane would be a meme lord and just post memes all day long. He resonates with them, he thinks. Also, A LOT of dark humor. Fane is...intense. Let's leave it at that. Pfft.

19. How would an enemy describe this oc?

Absolutely terrifying. I mean, do you want a six foot, athletic muscled, white haired, two toned eyed, great sword wielding, and a penchant for kicking elf-dragon bearing down on you? With eyes that seemingly shift and morph into different colors and a snarl from elven lips that made you think there was actually a dragon about to snap your head off? Or a boot that slams into a breastplate so hard that it cracks pure silverite down the middle? Do you want to watch as a pale face that looks dark with battle induced anger and adrenaline twist from an ancient insanity that put most 'madmen' to shame? Do you want to see the blood splatter across that same face, eyes dark and bright all at once as one of your fellows is cleaved in two and all that face does is watch with utter boredom until those two toned eyes land on you? Do you want to feel the sensation of dread, panic, and pure terror as a large frame that shouldn't be able to move with such graceful, fluid movements, but does as it slams you into a wall, once sturdy bricks crumbling to fall upon you as those same soul delving eyes just watch without missing a beat?

Do you want to die with a hand in your chest as a spectral, blue claw splits your chest open, letting you observe and accept that the end is near? No? Well, then, don't dance with the Dragon of the Dread Wolf unless you know the steps. *tips my hat* Good day.

30. Tell a random fact about this oc!

Random fact, random fact...hmm. Ah! Well, just for a little treat, a little tease for late story, I'll share something that'll make for some speculation, but won't give anything away. *clears throat*

Fane has the capacity to harness a portion of an Old God's soul. *smiles pleasantly before walking away*

And there we are! :D Thank you for the ask! Always love them! <3

#oc: fane lavellan #asks #dragon age #go on speculate on that last one #*cackles manically*#that enemy description one was FUN ngl #fane is intimidating and scary and very very violent in battle #outside of it he's just sad though and eats cake and researches dragons :3 #very feral either way though XD #thank you again!

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llewey-watts · 3 years

Text

Work in progress post:

Detective Watts Best Quotes

Concocting A Killer

Watts: “Ah, so you’re the one who botched it.” Murdoch: “Excuse me?”

Watts: “Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Brackenreid: “Listen, Detective Murdoch did nothing wrong. The Crown is just worried that Shanley may claim prejudice if the same detective reinvestigates the case.”

Watts: “Right, right, right. You’re just biased. The coroner’s the one who botched it. Coroners. Odd lot. Far from reliable to say the least. Not to mention the smell.”

Murdoch: “Our coroner has a flawless record. And she also happens to be my wife.”

Watts: “Good God, man. You’re married to the city coroner?”

Murdoch: “Yes.”

Watts: “Oof. Is she pretty? Ah, she’d have to be pretty. I don’t know how else you could tolerate being married to a colleague.”

“The streets of this fine city are my office.”

Crabtree: “Should I read these files?”

Watts: “Absolutely not. The less you know, the more pure you remain. From purity emerges truth. From truth emerges justice. Knowing nothing allows one to see everything.”

“Our mind is where we live our lives. The only home one needs is the human skull.”

Watts: “Oh, no. You interviewed a witness?”

Murdoch: “Oh, no. She called on me.”

Watts: “Your involvement was to cease entirely. Instead, it appears you are continuing to seek a conviction. And based on what? A visual test done 12 years ago by a neophyte coroner?”

Murdoch: “Dr. Ogden is my wife.”

Watts: “Which makes it all the more likely you’re blind to her mistakes. No, it appears this dinner was a poor idea. Good night Detective.”

Watts: “The detective was wrong.”

Ogden: “About what?”

Watts: “You’re not pretty.”

Ogden: “Excuse me?”

Watts: “Look at you. Classic, Romanesque bone structure, excellent physiognomic symmetry. You’re not pretty. You’re beautiful.”

Ogden: “Well, I suppose I’m flattered.”

Watts: “Why? It’s merely an objective assessment. But that necktie **shakes his head**.

“Honestly, Inspector, how does anyone work with this man? He is some kind of renegade to whom rules are a foreign concept.”

“Let’s suppose for a moment that Mr. Shanley is guilty of this current murder. Now, does that make him more or less likely to be guilty of the first? Are you the same man today you were yesterday? Your hair is not the same. You cut and discarded it. Same with your fingernails. Over time, our entire body falls away and is reconstituted. How, then, can you be the same? Oh, but our thinking changes with maturity, with experience. In truth, the continuity of personhood may be nothing more than a delusion. In fact, it makes me question our whole profession..."

“We need to get out of doors detective. The truth is in the air. We must **deep breath** breathe it in.”

“We both know you didn’t do it. — We have to blame someone. The function of the police is to attribute blame on behalf of the community, but the community doesn’t particularly care if we blame the right person. — Why not? Man has been using scapegoats since Leviticus. The sims were placed upon the goat, the goat was banished to the desert, but mo one cared that the goat was innocent.”

“The ignorami at Station One have done it again. I clearly told them to release the man who looks like Karl Marx. They’ve let out some fellow who’s as clean-shaven as bloody Kierkegaard.”

Hades Hath No Fury

“How could I have been so unaware? My sister was in distress, and I suspected nothing. Age is no excuse for inattention. -but, sir, you found her. Your sister’s alive.- Yes. So I’m at peace.”

“Yes. Well life is but a cruel sport for whatever maker you are forced to believe in. -Detective Watts I understand...- Would your sister forsake you for a house of women who have eschewed the world in which you live?-my sister was a nun.-“

“Truth is absolute, unyielding and eternal, Jackson. It is our one constant in a turbulent universe.”

“Your face is *pause* symmetrical, but that hat *shakes his head*”

Merlot Mysteries

Watts: “Wine is proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy.”

Murdoch: “I highly doubt that”

Watts: “Oh, you reject the words of Benjamin Franklin?”

Murdoch: “Even a clever man is capable of a bad idea. no. wine, like any alcohol, is a depressant. It hinders the mind.”

Watts: “Ah, but ‘in wine there is truth.’ -Pliny the Elder.”

Murdoch: “Writers and Philosophers are seldom the best of judges. Especially when it comes to alcohol.

Watts: “Well, no one less than Louis Pasteur called wine, ‘the most helpful and most hygienic of beverages.’ Is it that you don’t enjoy the taste?”

Murdoch: “Ah.”

“Oh. Wait right there. I’m going to show you how wrong you are.”

“‘Wine can of their wits the wise beguile, make the sage frolic, and a serious smile.’”

“In the words of Diogenes, ‘What I like to drink most is wine that belongs to others.’”

Murdoch: “Spectroscopic analysis.”

Watts: “Ah, yes. Not reliable in my experience. How’s it meant to help us?”

Murdoch: “By comparing the wine in question to the light profile of other varying ages, we’ll be able to discern precisely how old it is.”

Ogden: “The older the wine, presumably, the light the color, thanks to the blanching effect of sunlight.”

Watts: “Mm, but it was kept in a cellar. Depending on conditions, two bottles of the same provenance could be wildly different. There’s absolutely to way to determine —“

Murdoch: “Thank you, Detective. Please.”

Watts: “All right.”

Ogden: “Ready?”

Murdoch: “Yes.”

Ogden: “It’s 4.3.”

**Watts waiting + messing around.**

Ogden: “It’s 5.2. 8.5.”

Watts: “Well?”

Murdoch: “[Sighs] They are all different.”

Watts: “Really?”

Murdoch: “Every grape, every year, every bottle.”

Watts: “Hm, you don’t say.”

Murdoch: “It compares to an 1880 Merlot...a 1902 Tempranillo...and...several others.”

Ogden: “Well, I suppose you told us so, Detective.”

Murdoch: “All right. Call in your expert.”

Watts: “Uh, not my expert. My sommelier.”

The Talking Dead

“No one intends to get murder **scratches his beard** and yet.”

Crabtree: “Sir, are you not concerned that you yourself are marked for death?”

Watts: “Oh, I don’y like it, but the truth is death could come to any one of us any day.”

Crabtree: “Still, no need to hurry it along.”

Watts: “Well, very little of life is under our control. Very little death as well.”

Crabtree: “Watts, have you ever been to Paris?”

Watts: “Ah yes, The City of Light.”

Crabtree: “I thought that was Buffalo?”

Watts: “No, I believe Paris came up with it first. Why do you ask?”

Crabtree: “Nina’s involved with a show that’s preforming there. She wants me to go.”

Watts: “Forever?”

Crabtree: “No, no, just a short while.”

Watts: “Well, the world is only an oyster if you choose to open it.”

Crabtree: “So go to Paris today, for tomorrow I might die?”

Watts: “Precisely.”

Crabtree: “What about you? What would you do with your last day?”

Watts: “Just this. Talk to a friend.”

Crabtree: “Who? Oh me?”

Watts: “And solve a crime.This is what were looking for.”

Crabtree: “Brilliant.”

Watts: “The City of Love with a beautiful woman. You’d be a fool to say no.”

Crabtree: “Thought you said it was the City of Light.”

Watts: “Light. Love. Are they not one and the same?”

Crabtree: “I prefer to love with the lights off, sir. I fear I’m bashful.”

Crabtree à la Carte

“A shame. It looks terrific. I think I’ll go out for lunch. Anyone care to join me? —- This disappoints me. But I soldier on.”

“I’ll work with her. People are not to be defined merely by their words, thoughts, and actions.”

“KRRRKRRRKRRRSHING SHING SHING SHING SHING! a moleta.”

“[speaking Italian] RESPONDA TO ME!”

That man’s look tho.

Watts: “It may once again be safe, but I’m not sure I’ll ever regard meat with the same enthusiasm again.”

Cherry: “Perhaps you should stick to freshly butchered cuts.”

Watts: “I thought the same. Then I read up on the abattoir conditions in the stockyards.”

Cherry: “The Shelleys subscribed to a Pythagorean diet. Da Vinci too.”

Watts: “Pythagorean? You mean vegetarian?”

Cherry: “I do. ‘My body,’ said da Vinci, ‘will not be a tomb to other creatures.’”

Watts: “Yes. Yes, it’s the only way to live, isn’t it? Join me, Miss Cherry. From this day forward, we shall follow the ranks of all moral men in our strict adherence to vegetarianism.”

Cherry: “Uh, I don’t think so. What, are we cows?”

Murdoch Schmurdoch

“Are you being facetious?”

“**To Constable John Brackenreid** Let me guess, you invited a lady to accompany you on an outing and she declined. — I would counsel you to persevere. Ask again. As Lord Nelson wrote, ‘the boldest measures are the safest,’ although I suppose a woman is quite unlike a Danish Fleet. — Yes. Tread softly, Young Brackenreid. Let her know that if her inclination changes, your offer still stands.”

Game of Kings

Ogden: “I see. Well, I don’t much fancy being stared at for the next five months.”

Murdoch: “Julia...”

Ogden: “Inspector, I couldn’t help but notice that you and all of the men were staring at the us both. Is there something you’d like to ask?”

Brackenreid: “Uh, no.”

Ogden: “Constable Crabtree?”

Crabtree: “What? [Chuckles]”

Ogden: “Higgins?”

Higgins: “No, ma’am.”

Ogden: “What about you, Detective Watts? You seem like a curious fellow.”

Watts: “Well, there is one thing.”

Murdoch: “What is that?”

Watts: “When’s the baby coming?”

Crabtree: “Oh!”

Brackenreid: “Bloody hell, Watts! They wanted to keep it a secret.”

Watts: “How could they do that when everyone clearly knows what’s going on here?”

Free Falling

Watts: “One hopes this won’t put too much of a strain on their relationship.”

Crabtree: “How so?”

Watts: “In the face of great loss, emotions can be misdirected. Feelings amplified. I knew a young couple who experienced a similar issue. They never recovered.”

Watts: “The secret to dealing with gruesome remains is to replace natural instinct with logic.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Okay. How?”

Watts: “Consider an ant. Imagine you trod upon one, crushing it, and leaving it’s body mangled beyond recognition. Now, does this disturb you?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Not really.”

Watts: “Exactly. So we simply apply the transitive law. If we are not disturbed by an ant, there is no reason to be disturbed by a beetle. If not by a beetle, then not by a caterpillar. Nor a butterfly, nor a sparrow, nor a fish, nor a rabbit, not a dog...nor a human. What we have here, then, is no more disturbing than the squashed remains of an ant.”

Hart: “What’s this?”

Watts: “A reminder of the inhumanity of man, Miss Hart.”

Hart: “How poetic.”

Watts: “Constable? It seems something’s troubling you.”

Crabtree: “How so?”

Watts: “There’s an expression on your face that suggests you have a thought in your head.”

Crabtree: “Do you remember I asked you about visiting Paris?”

Watts: “No.”

Crabtree: “And then I was away for some time?”

Watts: “No.”

Crabtree: “No. Well, in any case, I did. I went to Paris with Nina.”

Watts: “Mm.”

Crabtree: “And she wants to go again, but for good.”

Watts: “So you’re considering leaving us all behind?”

Crabtree: “I don’t want to. My whole life is here. But I could imagine a life there. I don’t know. If I...If I don’t go, I lose Nina. If I do, I lose everything else that’s dear to me.”

Watts: “One loss doesn’t outweigh the other?”

Crabtree: “The enormity of either seems too great to contemplate.”

Watts: “Oof. Well...I can’t give you any advice. But I can tell you what I know. I know that we spend our whole lives holding on to what we have. We fear loss as much as death itself. But without loss, there is no change. Without change, there is no? Life.”

Crabtree: “Detective. You realize there’s nothing written on the blackboard, right?”

Watts: “Uh, yes, but it provides a frame of reference.”

Crabtree: “Ah.”

Brothers Keepers

“Of course I’m not certain. Memories are fragmentary impressions at best. The mind moves like a flock of starlings. It’s hard to pin down a thought, let alone a memory.”

“Did I have reason? Nigel Baker tortured and killed a man I...A man who was in every way my brother. Someone who deserved my protection. I had ample reason to kill Nigel Baker. But as I have already made clear, I didn’t recognize him. So did I kill him with intention? No. Am I sorry he’s dead? No, I’m not. To be honest, even if given the chance to exact my revenge, I’m not sure I’m capable of it. Obviously, my philosophy rejects that very idea. No one asks to be the way they are, not even boys like Nigel Baker.”

In reference to justice being found:

Watts: “Where is that to be found? I’ve been asking myself that. To be honest, I’m unable to think of much else.

Murdoch: “You seek justice.”

Watts: “I crave it. If I could, I would demand it. I want the man who killed my brothers to feel their pain. To feel my grief at what he did to them. But he’s dead. At the hand of his father. Did he even know why? And now the father will likely hang. Is that justice?

Brackenreid: “Of a sort, I suppose.”

Watts: “Then why don’t I feel better?”

Annabella Cinderella

Constable Brackenreid: “Do you think I’ll get a chance to meet him?”

Crabtree: “Who? The lawyer? What do you want to meet him for?”

Constable Brackenreid: “I-I followed the trial. I felt sorry for her.”

Crabtree: “John, she killed her mother with an ax.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Harriet Rawlins wasn’t her mother. Annabella was a home child.”

Crabtree: “So that makes it alright?”

Constable Brackenreid: “She was beaten and tortured. Her home sister admitted as much.”

Crabtree: “The home sister that Annabella then tried to murder?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Rosemary Rawlins was abusive as well.”

Watts: “That’s what made it such a brilliant defense. The victim was painted as a villain, the villain painted as a victim. Annabella Cinderella.”

Crabtree: “So you’re a fan of the lawyer as well?”

Constable Brackenreid: “He took her case for free.”

Watts: “Oh, nobody’s motives are purely altruistic. It’s all in the service of his political aspirations. He running for mayor, don’t you know?”

Crabtree: “Thank you very much, Detective Watts, for everything. You as well, Mr. Daniels.”

Constable Brackenreid: “And I’m terribly sorry about all of this.”

Watts: “Of course you’re sorry. It doesn’t change anything, so why waste energy in saying it?”

Constable Brackenreid: “Does Detective Murdoch know?”

Watts: “No, he doesn’t. And that’s not the question you should be asking right now.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Sorry, I...”

Watts: “Nope.”

Constable Brackenreid: “W-What is?”

Lawyer: “How do we find her?”

Watts: “Ah. On the train over, I went through the file from the Crown prosecutor. There’s one more person we should protect.”

Lawyer: “Who’s that?”

Watts: “The doctor who filed the death certificate and attended the case.”

Lawyer: “Dr. Beattie was never called to testify.”

Watts: “He provided evidence that helped convict her.”

Lawyer: “Good point. Let’s go.”

Watts: “No. You stay. **waves gun in the air** This is police business. All right.”

Constable Brackenreid: “I’m not saying she’s innocent. I just pointed out that there are other people who may have wanted to kill her mother.”

Watts: “Which, if they did, would ipso facto make her innocent.”

Crabtree: “Did she say she was innocent?”

Constable Brackenreid: “She did, yes.”

Watts: “‘Twas ever thus.”

Constable Brackenreid: **opens the door** “Oh, my God.”

Watts: “Still think she’s so innocent?”

Constable Brackenreid: “This is my fault.”

Crabtree: “It’s jot your fault, John.”

Watts: “Losing the prisoner was your fault. This is merely a consequence. One cannot be accountable for every consequence, because the consequences of every action are infinite.”

Constable Brackenreid: “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Watts: “Your feelings are irrelevant. It’s simply the truth of it.”

Crabtree: “It does confirm our fears. The girl’s out for bloody revenge.”

#llewellyn watts #murdoch mysteries #jack walker #george crabtree appreciation society #detective watts #quotes

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hesesols · 4 years

Text

For Queen & Country

Day 17 of Ichiruki month 2020: Coronation

Summary: She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former’s stead.

Rating: M

FF/ao3

"Father, what is marriage?"

Byakuya Kuchiki, Lord of Western Rukongai – father, duke, kingmaker; stilled.

Bright violet eyes stared back defiantly, wisps of midnight black hair teasing her nape; taking after his late wife in both temperament and appearance. She was tiny- barely reaching his knees and he easily picked her up, setting her on his lap.

"It is what happens when two people decide to live together forever," he told her.

Here, the child frowned. Forever, sounded far too long. A quarter-hour for lessons and a day for songs under the sun- those were reasonable terms of engagement. She couldn't even sit still for her lessons much less consider something that would mean longer than a day.

Still, she thought of the potential advantages to the arrangement. Miss Hinamori gave her sweets if she behaved during her lessons and sat very very still. Some days, when she was especially good, she would ask Miss Hinamori for chocolate.

The governess had laughed and called her a word- shrewd, she wondered what it meant.

Her eyes narrowed, if she could endure her lessons for sweets and desserts- surely that must mean that there are greater things to be gained from a long-suffering pact as this?

Folding her arms very solemnly, she asked her father to name the price.

"What would it mean for me?"

A bride- fine gossamer silk, bolts of colourful fabrics woven of every colour known to man, bone-china, her mother's pearls; blessed, cherished, happy, loved.

A wife- bearer of the world, the silent matriarch, keeper of secrets, manageress of a household and an empty bed; tried, dignified, wise, experienced.

But those are visions of a man old and weary of the world, she will learn of the Truth at her own pace. He gave her something less tangible- facts.

"When you marry, you take on your husband's last name and share your fortunes with him, take care of him, obey him, give him ch-"

He caught himself just in time. As fascinating as the conversation was, Lord Byakuya did not fancy a conversation with his daughter on the matter of baby-making and answer her queries on how children were made.

That would come much later and at the hands of an experienced governess, preferably.

He cleared his throat loudly and looked at his daughter who had the most thoughtful expression set on her face while chewing on the ends of her braids. The cogs in her brain turned.

Everything?

Her young mind was devastated- that meant her favourite cakes and sweets, even that sweet little rabbit that she had rescued, half of everything she had was some horrible boy's future property?

Boys- like Renji, were horrible and mean, they had no appreciation for fine, pretty things like her drawings, they liked to tug her hair and call her names. They were rough, rude and were more wont to destroy than build.

Her dolls- china, and straw-made, still bore scars as a testament to their ill-treatment at the hands of her unruly siblings.

"Must I?"

"Are you a good person?"

She nodded vigorously. She obeyed Miss Hinamori instructions and did what she was told (most of the time). There was also the time when she saved a rabbit from the cook's horrible dogs. The rabbit- she called him Chappy, now lives in a pretty cage and was served fresh carrots daily. Miss Hinamori had praised her and called her kind, so she must be.

"Then you should," he said.

The raven-haired noblewoman in-the-making made a face.

"That is absolutely mad, Father," she tugged on his sleeves and fixed him with her strongest gaze, "why would people do such things?"

"For duty, honour and sometimes, love, my dearest."

The girl frowned- 'duty' and 'honour'. She held both words in contempt with a vengeance unbecoming for a Lady of noble status, for it was used with relish when seven year-olds were made to do what they were told.

It was her 'duty' as a future Lady of noble birth to be in bed early, to share her toys with her visiting cousins, to find dancing and other leisurely activities like playing the piano-forte as natural as breathing. And much to her dismay, she would find that as the years passed, the list too grew. Now, her 'duties' even included making 'scintillating' and 'polite' conversations with even the rudest of her associates. The words did not gain any favour at the hands of her father- who was a far more eloquent speaker than Miss Hinamori and infinitely more superior in his knowledge of the world.

Rukia was made to feel stupid and insignificant when they come out to play.

Renji says 'love' with a tone that sealed it as the most despicable thing under the sky and she supposed she would agree with her adopted brother for once- it must be a dangerous and strange thing indeed for some people to willingly share half of everything they owned with another person, especially with icky boys and their grubby hands.

Furthermore, she was reminded of the cloying sweet smell of perfume that her older cousin favoured upon the arrival of her betrothed. The older girl with her sudden airy, breathless tone of voice and her betrothed with the oddest smile on his face that frankly made him look foolish. Miss Hinamori had claimed that it was because it was a love match between the young couple and it did not happen often in people of her circle.

She wrinkled her nose and prayed that she never succumbed to it.

"Father," she began solemnly, "I do not think I shall ever marry."

The normally stoic noble smiled at her. Children have such amusing ideas and thoughts. Keeping his face straight and trying very hard to remain stern, he told her.

"We shall see."'

Inevitably, she learns.

Love is tradition- Kuchiki Manor in all its daunting glory and untouched forest, family- her brothers, insufferably rude as they may be, warmth- her father, in his infinite wisdom and sagacity, companionship- Miss Hinamori, her surrogate mother and confidante.

It is like wine- aging well with the passage of time and a fruit of labour known only to those who have endured and triumphed together and then content in the arms of each other, have stayed. It is tender- kisses on the cheeks, bear hugs and booming laughter, and it grows out of the fondness of one's heart and intimate wishes.

Marriage on the other hand is sudden and tempestuous. It is the unsuspecting storm that came with all the fury known to God, the end to unspoken promises and ill-kept vows.

It comes when a Royal Princess flees the machinations of her own Father. It comes at the bidding of a Mad King with even wilder ambitions- thinly-veiled threats and open affronts. It comes with her dowry-horses laden with riches, ballads and tapestries, rolls of expensive furs and leather skins, a procession of servants, craftsmen, artisan- bearing coat of arms, her motherland's pride, the history and culture of her people- an entourage befitting of a Royal Princess; and ends with her hand offered on a golden pedestal.

It is duty and honour, the sealing of two nations bound now in kinship- it is momentous, sweeping and public.

It is anything but her wedding.

She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former's stead.

She stood tall as she said goodbye to all that she has ever known to be home. Her brothers said very little and too much all at once. Her sacrifice burnt them and that mark singed the family tapestry. Hath they hung their heads down for shame or sorrow?

Her father appeared- stoic and wordlessly pressed her mother's pearls into her hands.

She ascends the steps to the throne room looming ahead- a sea of unknown faces and stunned silence. She is veiled and shrouded in white- made to stand next to a man she was to call husband for all eternity and become mother to his nation. She hears the words and murmurs of the clergyman, gives her consent when the holy man bids her to, bows when it is expected of her- but processes very little.

Her husband-she stares at the brown-eyed stranger with wild hair and watches with muted horror as he slides the golden band onto her finger.

"Play the game as you were taught to," he told her. Scarcely daring to meet her eyes, he gripped her hands tight. Yes of course, the charade must hold- should the truth be made public, the consequences will be severe. He laid another necklace- heavier in weight and heritage; around her neck and clasped it shut.

It felt like a sentence- a Deadman's noose hanging around her neck. He kissed her cheeks.

"For duty and honour- Lady Rukia Kuchiki."

"For as long as I live, I shall cherish you and it is my hope that our union shall beget a prosperous future for both kingdoms."

His words sound like a scripted play. She grips his hand perhaps a little tighter in response- a show; she must always let them see who they want to see- a bride, a happy, beautiful, willing bride who is elated at her marriage to a young King.

She smiles and he places the jewel-encrusted tiara upon her head- her crowning glory.

The heavy weight and the gravity of her decision sink into her. She will serve the Crown and her King- she will be a good wife, she will honour her vows, and she will be Queen.

"My kingdom is now your home and the fate of her people- her people shall honour you as their Queen."

"Remember your lessons," he whispered as she turned to leave. The Court across the sea may have different heralds and customs, may style and culture themselves differently, and favour soaring towers instead of domes, but all Courts are snake pits. Know one and you know them all.

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

She marched out of the centuries-old manor- head held high, shoulders squared for upon it laid the fate and honour of her household. She spared no further glances at the Manor as she climbed into the carriage- within her Kingdom at least, Lady Rukia Kuchiki has ceased to exist the moment it was decided that she would marry a King in the eloped princess's stead.

She keeps her gaze on her husband- high cheekbones, strong jawline, thin lips, deep set eyes of a curious shade between brown and gold. She sees a man in his prime, broad-shouldered and tall- shaped and molded as though he was one of those heathen Gods.

She is young but not naïve. Trepidation lines her thoughts.

What does he have in mind for her- Queen, envoy, impostor?

He bends down slightly to unveil her and kisses her on her lips chastely. When he draws away, he remains expressionless and she reads nothing from his eyes. The erupting cheers from the crowd distract her and she heaves a breath of relief.

How odd it is that a duke's daughter who has never even dreamt of seeing the blue sea, would someday find herself heralding a procession of her nation's finest to a Court so many leagues away, of taking part in a scandalous hoax for the better of two kingdoms.

First princess, now queen to a gilded nation of hyphenated names and odd houses, married to a man whose first name she doesn't even know.

Perhaps such is the strange way of life.

It is as expected, a politically-fuelled marriage between him and his foreign bride.

His ministers of course, waxed poetries of her beauty and grace. She is to bring with her the riches from the Court beyond the sea, skills and knowledge from another kingdom, books written and inventions made from the best amongst their contemporaries, spices and trade.

Her blood is old, the noblemen of his Court reminded him- a scion of a noble and powerful kingdom, steep in tradition and a well-known history of bearing prodigious sons. She will bear him strong heirs- sons to carry forth his name and legacy.

What more should a young king, still childless and only sisters for siblings, desire? It is no secret of course, should he die now, issueless- the throne will go to a viscount from another kingdom- a son of his great-grandaunt's bloodline, a man who has never even set foot on this land.

Yet as he regards his young wife, he frowns; she is not what he expected.

"Who are you?"

She stiffens but the smile on her face doesn't falter. If nothing else, he at least commends her on her acting and composure.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

He rolls his eyes, takes another sip of the wine as he keeps his hand on the small of her back, leaning in to whisper to her ears only.

"You're not the Princess."

He has seen the Princess Orihime once. Though from afar and hidden in the shadows, while he was passing through a neighbouring kingdom under the guise of a different name. A serendipitous affair that ends with a dance for the two of them, and a kiss on the back of her hand as is proper.

This woman in front of him, heralded by so many as beautiful, virtuous and kind, and a million other things associated with that of the paragon of queenliness, and for all intents and purposes, his wife and future mother of his unborn children; is not that woman.

The two are nothing alike.

Her smile quivers- it's the first crack in her defences.

"You are mistaken, my lord. I am the Princess Orihime."

They're surrounded by courtiers. Each one more devious and sycophantic than the other; Rukia is determined to clench her teeth and bear through the confrontation. To any and all onlookers, they must appear to be, at all times, unruffled and polished.

He says nothing more after that.

A lord so-and-so comes forward to present himself and Rukia contents herself by letting her mind wander while the portly man dawdles on about the festivity of the occasion, on what a grand wedding it was, repeats the word 'grandeur' and 'blessed' for at least three more times before the King sends him away and in parting, flourishes with a deep bow, murmuring how he wishes only the very best for the royal couple.

Neither of said couple deigns to utter a syllable more to each other as the festivities and merry-making continues.

The King's Bedchamber is where they retire for the first night to they consummate their marriage and mark their beginning as a pair- from henceforth, princess and daughter no more, but a Queen she will be- till Death spares them the misery.

Moonlight pours forth from the open window into the darkly lit room. Rukia is clad only in the sheerest of silk and bare underneath it. She feels vulnerable under his gaze, more so when his hands grab her by the wrist and tugs her towards him.

Alone with no interruptions from her ladies-in-waiting and his stewards, he continues with the unrelenting rounds of questions, fingers digging deep into her flesh.

He asks her again.

"Who are you?"

She sighs, lowering her gaze respectfully, recites it all with an even tone.

"I am Princess Orihime. I—"

He laughs- mirthless and cruel, cutting her short when the hold on her arm becomes tight enough to bruise. She hisses in response.

"No more lies. Or would you prefer me calling you by another woman's name even when we are in bed?"

She clamps her mouth shut.

"It's not that hard. I only need a name."

Silence still.

"Well if you are so unwilling. Perhaps a member of the entourage would be more forthcomi—"

"My name is Rukia."

The glare she shoots him is fierce and not at all like the simpering front she puts up.

"Who are you, Rukia?"

She bites her lips.

"A nobody."

"And why would they send me a nobody instead of the Princess, Rukia?"

Her breath hitches when his arm brushes against her side, glide across the rise of her breasts and leans in close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on hers. Fingers busy themselves with the hemline of her nightdress, cut far shorter than she is used to.

"I don't know."

"Where is the Princess, Rukia?"

She keeps quiet, clenches her fists tight enough that her nails dig into her palm. She mustn't say a word or give away the unfortunate circumstances that brought her to him, to this country and Court. The Mad King is watching even now, his spies lurking among her entourage and numerous attendants.

Her family- her father and brothers are all under his mercy.

She can't.

The price of failing is much too steep for her to bear.

"I-I don't know."

She looks at the young King dead in the eyes and lies anyway, uncaring if he sees past her lies or takes them at face value.

"Oh, is that so?"

There is a rip in her gown. The flimsy material gives way with a rough tug and Rukia steels herself, looking into her husband's eyes- amber, dark, knowing; as she steps out of the puddle of ruined silk and kisses him.

He tastes of wine- the richness of it lingering on his lips; and secrets- many of which she will never be privy to, but that's fine too. She has no use of his heart. The stiffness in the set of his shoulders gives way when she winds her arms around his neck and cards her fingers through his hair.

Sex, she has been told, serves as a good distraction- if nothing else.

He doesn't fight her.

There's a growl of approval as sinewy arms snake around her slim waist and pulls her flush along his body and under him on the bed as he does away with his clothes. Underneath them, he is broad-chested and beautiful- the lines of his body carved and sculpted like a work of art with perfection in mind. A scar here, a mark there; a trail of wispy golden hair that marks the length of his torso, leading to the –

"My eyes are here," he teases.

A collision of lips, teeth and tongues as his lips find hers again. There is heat there, a fire that she stokes when her hand brushes against his arousal- intentional or artless, she doesn't know; not when his molten gaze strips her down to her very core of neediness.

The suppleness of her flesh and her tender sex is his to do as he sees fit. His fingers tease at her nipples, parting the folds of her dripping sex and she gasps as they slide knuckle-deep into her.

"Ichigo," he tells her in between heavy grunts.

"W-What?"

She is more than a little breathless under him and the way her sex clenches and tightens- she hisses. How meaningless words have become.

"My name. You should know. That's the name you should be screaming out when I make you come."

She doesn't remember much after.

The rest of the night is a blur and blend of heady emotions, the stickiness of his spent on her inner thighs- soft moans barely recognizable as hers while he sinks into her- heavy with want, and makes a home in her warmth. Oh quivering muscles, the tight coil of nerves unravelling, the snap of his hips and the gleam in his eyes- golden and wild.

She soars and peaks with him in tandem until dawn is but moments away and he withdraws with a soft murmur.

"Sleep."

In the morning when her ladies-in-waiting find her, she is covered in bruises and bites. The ruined silk- a weak excuse for a dress to begin with- is in tatters on the floor and the unmistakable stains on the sheets mark the sharing of sins and desires.

She is sore and aching over patches of black and blue. She doesn't want company.

But company stays.

The King's orders they crow and the smiling ladies titter, nervously ushering her into a warm bath with scented oils and rose petals. The nice-smelling blend they lather into her hair sooths her tired body, enough for her to regain thoughts and some use of her limbs.

The King is an ardent lover and thorough in his exploration of her. Even now, Rukia doesn't think she has the energy left within her to even crawl unless prompted.

"Is he everything you had imagined?"

Rukia flashes back to her childhood memories. Of her at her father's lap- on the transactional nature of marriages and bridal price and dowries, and the meaning of duty, honour and love; she laughs—

And doesn't stop until tears stream down her face.

FF/ao3

Sneak peek for IR royalty AU dedicated to the lovely @animeokaachan.

I couldn’t resist.

Review, like, comment, reblog or drop me an ask to send some love my way.

#ichiruki #ichirukimonth2020 #ichiruki month #irmonth2020 #mine #for queen and country #fanfic #royalty AU #rukia is an impostor and ichigo knows #day 17: coronation

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