<p>Somaliland.</p>
<p>landsomali :D</p>
<ol>
<li>What would Jesus do?</li>
<li>What wouldn't Jesus do?</li>
<li>Does it count if I ask the guy in front of Home Depot whose name is Jesus?</li>
</ol>
<ol>
<li>Qu'est-ce que Jesus fera ?</li>
<li>Qu'est-ce que Jesus ne fera pas?</li>
<li>Vaut si je demande l'homme devant le Home Depot que s'appelle Jesus?</li>
</ol>
<p>
[quote]
This forum requires that you wait 30 seconds between searches. Please try again in 81 seconds.
[/quote]
/* ;ladskjdskljds;klfjdskldsk */</p>
<p>The Highwayman
By Alfred Noyes</p>
<p>Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.</p>
<pre><code> II
</code></pre>
<p>He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.</p>
<pre><code> III
</code></pre>
<p>Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.</p>
<pre><code> IV
</code></pre>
<p>And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-</p>
<pre><code> V
</code></pre>
<p>"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."</p>
<pre><code> VI
</code></pre>
<p>He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.</p>
<p>Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.</p>
<pre><code> II
</code></pre>
<p>They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.</p>
<pre><code> III
</code></pre>
<p>They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!</p>
<pre><code> IV
</code></pre>
<p>She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!</p>
<pre><code> V
</code></pre>
<p>The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.</p>
<pre><code> VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
</code></pre>
<p>ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!</p>
<pre><code> VII
</code></pre>
<p>Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.</p>
<pre><code> VIII
</code></pre>
<p>He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.</p>
<pre><code> IX
</code></pre>
<p>Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.</p>
<pre><code> * * * * * *
X
</code></pre>
<p>And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.</p>
<pre><code> XI
</code></pre>
<p>Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.</p>
<p>This thread is too hilarious...</p>
<p>THE TELL-TALE HEART</p>
<p>by Edgar Allan Poe
(1843)</p>
<p>TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"</p>
<p>dwight schrute is my hero</p>
<p>Here we are
In a room full of strangers
Discussing politics
And the issues of the day
I want to talk to you
But you may not want me to
I'm still gonna talk to you
I don't care what you say
Talkin' it up
On the Barry Gibb Talk Show
Talkin' 'bout issues
Talkin' 'bout real important issues
We are talkin it up on the Barry Gibb talk show
Talkn' 'bout politics in this crazy crazy time
O yea, o yea, o yea.</p>
<p>It's really something that somebody would waste there time making this crap. I'm sorry if I sound like a jackass...but lets get real.</p>
<p>^wow you made a user name just to say that, it must have been some really nice looking crap that you saw</p>
<p>aywegfuawbc dhusihc udcjsdncj anduiashnI'mnotoncrackoidafj wioejd fiwajefi jw</p>
<p>I can't find the site that used to have the entire novel Lolita on it. I was planning to post the entire novel here :(</p>
<p>'tis I, the creater of this thread!</p>
<p>114 posts! Only 386 more to go.
someone suggested that we raise the desired post #. s, assuming we get this thread to 500 posts, we should continue to post till we reach 1000.</p>
<p>keep the posts coming! :D</p>
<p>I love you, Venkat. </p>
<p>I'm Barry flippin' Gibb!</p>
<p>Lazy Sunday,
Wake up in the late afternoon
Call Parnell just to see how he’s doin’
Hello?
What up, Parn!
Yo Samberg, what’s crackin’?
You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?
Narnia!
Man it’s happ’nin’!
But first, my hunger pangs are stickin’ like duct tape.
Let’s hit up Magnolia and mack on some cupcakes.
No doubt, that bakery’s got all the bomb frostings.
I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling.</p>
<p>Two! No, Six! No, Twelve! Baker’s Dozen!
I told’ja that I’m crazy for these cupcakes, cousin!
Yo, where’s the movie playin’?
Upper West Side, dude!
Let’s hit up Yahoo Maps to find the dopest route.
I prefer Mapquest!
That’s a good one too.
Google Maps is the best!
True that! Double true!
68th and Broadway.
Step on it, sucka!
What you wanna do Chris?
snack attack, mutha—-!</p>
<p>Hit the Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
Yes, the Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
We love that Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
Pass that Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!</p>
<p>Yo, stop at the deli.
The theatre is overpriced!
You got that backpack
I’m going to pack it up nice.
We don’t want security to get suspicious!
Mr. Pibbs and Red Vines equals crazy delicious.
Yo, reach in my pocket and pull out some dough,
Girl acted like she never seen a $10 before!
It’s all about the Hamiltons baby
Throw the snacks in a bag and I’m Ghost like Swayze.</p>
<p>Roll up to the theatre
Ticket buying what we’re handling,
You can call us Aaron Burr from the way we’re dropping Hamiltons
Parked in our seats movie trivia’s the illest!
“What Friends alum starred in films with Bruce Willis?”
We answered so fast, it was scary:
Everyone stared in awe when we screamed “Matthew Perry!”
Then quiet in the theatre or it’s gonna get tragic
We’re about to be taken to a dream world of magic</p>
<p>In the Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
Yes, the Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
We love that Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!
Pass that Chronic-what?-cles of Narnia!</p>
<p>adam samberg.... is awesome</p>
<p>To all the fellas out there with ladies to impress it’s easy to do just follow these steps.
1. cut a hole in a box
2. put your junk in that box
3. make her open the box
And that’s the way you do it! It’s my d**k in a box!”</p>
<p>best poem ever...</p>
<p>The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S. Eliot</p>
<p>S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. </p>
<p>LET us go then, you and I,<br>
When the evening is spread out against the sky<br>
Like a patient etherised upon a table;<br>
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,<br>
The muttering retreats<br>
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels<br>
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:<br>
Streets that follow like a tedious argument<br>
Of insidious intent<br>
To lead you to an overwhelming question …<br>
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”<br>
Let us go and make our visit. </p>
<p>In the room the women come and go<br>
Talking of Michelangelo. </p>
<p>The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,<br>
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes<br>
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,<br>
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,<br>
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,<br>
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,<br>
And seeing that it was a soft October night,<br>
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. </p>
<p>And indeed there will be time<br>
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,<br>
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;<br>
There will be time, there will be time<br>
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;<br>
There will be time to murder and create,<br>
And time for all the works and days of hands<br>
That lift and drop a question on your plate;<br>
Time for you and time for me,<br>
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,<br>
And for a hundred visions and revisions,<br>
Before the taking of a toast and tea. </p>
<p>In the room the women come and go<br>
Talking of Michelangelo. </p>
<p>And indeed there will be time<br>
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”<br>
Time to turn back and descend the stair,<br>
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—<br>
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]<br>
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,<br>
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—<br>
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]<br>
Do I dare<br>
Disturb the universe?<br>
In a minute there is time<br>
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. </p>
<p>For I have known them all already, known them all:—<br>
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,<br>
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;<br>
I know the voices dying with a dying fall<br>
Beneath the music from a farther room.<br>
So how should I presume? </p>
<p>And I have known the eyes already, known them all—<br>
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,<br>
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,<br>
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,<br>
Then how should I begin<br>
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?<br>
And how should I presume? </p>
<p>And I have known the arms already, known them all—<br>
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare<br>
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]<br>
It is perfume from a dress<br>
That makes me so digress?<br>
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.<br>
And should I then presume?<br>
And how should I begin?
. . . . .<br>
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets<br>
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes<br>
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… </p>
<p>I should have been a pair of ragged claws<br>
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .<br>
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!<br>
Smoothed by long fingers,<br>
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,<br>
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.<br>
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?<br>
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,<br>
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,<br>
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;<br>
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,<br>
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,<br>
And in short, I was afraid. </p>
<p>And would it have been worth it, after all,<br>
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,<br>
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,<br>
Would it have been worth while,<br>
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,<br>
To have squeezed the universe into a ball<br>
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,<br>
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,<br>
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—<br>
If one, settling a pillow by her head,<br>
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.<br>
That is not it, at all.” </p>
<p>And would it have been worth it, after all,<br>
Would it have been worth while,<br>
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,<br>
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—<br>
And this, and so much more?—<br>
It is impossible to say just what I mean!<br>
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:<br>
Would it have been worth while<br>
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,<br>
And turning toward the window, should say:<br>
“That is not it at all,<br>
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .<br>
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;<br>
Am an attendant lord, one that will do<br>
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,<br>
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,<br>
Deferential, glad to be of use,<br>
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;<br>
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;<br>
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—<br>
Almost, at times, the Fool. </p>
<p>I grow old … I grow old …<br>
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. </p>
<p>Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?<br>
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.<br>
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. </p>
<p>I do not think that they will sing to me. </p>
<p>I have seen them riding seaward on the waves<br>
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back<br>
When the wind blows the water white and black. </p>
<p>We have lingered in the chambers of the sea<br>
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown<br>
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.</p>
<p>Is this the new "Everyone's Favorite Thread" like thread?</p>