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Showing posts from April, 2025

A Whole Street of Houses, Stirred With A Spoon

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“ And by this time they were come up to the great iron gates in front of the house; and Tom stared through them at the rhododendrons and azaleas, which were all in flower; and then at the house itself, and wondered how many chimneys there were in it, and how long ago it was built, and what was the man’s name that built it, and whether he got much money for his job? These last were very difficult questions to answer. For Harthover had been built at ninety different times, and in nineteen different styles, and looked as if somebody had built a whole street of houses of every imaginable shape, and then stirred them together with a spoon.” —The Water-Babies, by Charles Kingsley. Ch.1 (1863)

Oh, To Be A Kid Again

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Somebody’s Home

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 Just can’t come to the door right now At the gate, but missed the gun I can't start, but I'm not done Fortune never smiled at me It left me on my own Someone cracked the hour glass Shattered time and scattered past Set in stone, you can't un-cast The die once thrown And I'm in here with the blinds all drawn I can hear you but I can't respond Though the lights are on, just don't give up 'cause somebody's home Somebody's home Your eyes betray your sympathy But your eyes can't see inside of me Maybe there's nothing to see I guess we'll never know And I'm in here with the blinds all drawn I can hear you but I can't respond Though the lights are on, just don't give up 'cause somebody's home Somebody's home All the things I never said All still here inside my head All the plans you had for me All that will never be Oh, but don't give up on me I see more than you think I see Can anyone hear me, oh? And I'm in her...

Have an Inspirational Resurrection Day!

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 One of my favorite songs, right here

“Written in Early Spring” by William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  I HEARD a thousand blended notes   While in a grove I sate reclined,  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.  To her fair works did Nature link  The human soul that through me ran;  And much it grieved my heart to think  What Man has made of Man.  Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,  The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;  And ’tis my faith that every flower  Enjoys the air it breathes.  The birds around me hopp’d and play’d,  Their thoughts I cannot measure,—  But the least motion which they made  It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.  The budding twigs spread out their fan  To catch the breezy air;  And I must think, do all I can,  That there was pleasure there.  If this belief from heaven be sent,  If such be Nature’s holy plan,  Have I not reason to lament  What Man has made of Man?