GrimEden

I'm reading "The House by the Side of the Road" by Sam Walter Foss. The House by the Side of the Road There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content; There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths Where highways never ran- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat Nor hurl the cynic's ban- Let me live in a house by the side

I just finished writing fourteen pages of critiques for fllnthblnk, gaioumonbatou, atrue, and lovetodeviate, and since I’m too lazy to proofread them like I know I should, I decided to read some poetry instead. Considering the impending declarations of spelling and grammatical errors fated to be lobbied at me while I myself was talking about spelling and grammatical errors in the critiques, I’m surprisingly content with my decision. It could be the poem, though. I'm reading "This Dirty Little Heart" by Emily Dickinson. This dirty -- little -- Heart Is freely mine. I won it with a Bun -- A Freckled shrine -- But eligibly fair

I'm reading "The Journey" by Mary Oliver. The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice— though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn