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City Manistee, West Campus
Age 30
Height 154
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OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,— Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is. I, writing thus, am still what men Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf young; I have not so far left the coasts of life To travel inland, that I cannot hear That murmur of the outer Infinite Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep When wondered at for smiling; not so far, But still I catch my mother at her post Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 'Hush, hush—here's too much noise! Still I sit and feel My father's slow hand, when she had left us both, Stroke out my childish curls across his knee; And hear Assunta's daily jest she knew He liked it better than a better jest Inquire how many golden scudi went To make such ringlets.

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It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth— 'Tis then we get the right good from a book. Very kind. Who had set it there? God, I thank thee for that grace of thine! The ground seemed cut up from the fellowship Or verdure, field from field, as man from man; The skies themselves looked low and positive, As almost you could touch them with a hand, And dared to do it, Iys were so far off From God's celestial crystals; all things, blurred And dull and vague.

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Before they sit down under their own vine And live for use. I had enough, there, of the lime, be sure,— My morning-dream was often hummed away By the bees in it; past the lime, the lawn, Which, after sweeping broadly round the house, Went trickling through the shrubberies in a stream Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself Brauns the acacias, over which, you saw The irregular line of elms by the deep lane Which stopt the grounds and dammed the overflow Of arbutus and laurel.

Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf

My own self-pity, like the red-breast bird, Flies Itw to cover all that past with leaves. In which fantastic mood I bounded forth At early morning,—would not wait so long As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings, But, brushing a green trail across the lawn With my gown in the dew, took will and way Among the acacias of the shrubberies, To fly my fancies in the open air Igs keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke To stop good dreams. And so, through forced work and spontaneous work, The inner life informed the outer life, Reduced the irregular blood to settled rhythms, Made cool the forehead with fresh-sprinkling dreams, And, rounding to the spheric soul the thin Pined body, struck grains colour up the cheeks, Though somewhat faint.

Then, land! The train swept us on. She had lived A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage, ing that to leap from perch to perch Was act and joy enough for any bird. Mark, there.

Women know The way to rear up children, to be just, They know a simple, merry, tender knack Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, And stringing pretty words that make no sense, And kissing full sense into empty words; Which things are corals to cut life upon, Although such trifles: children learn by such, Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, And get not over-early solemnised,— But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's Divine, Which burns and hurts not,—not a single bloom,— Become aware and unafraid of Love.

And are you ready for the crochet here? Out of sight The lane was; sunk Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf deep, no foreign tramp Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's lodge Ddispensed such odours,—though his stick well -crooked Might reach the lowest trail of blossoming briar Which dipped upon the wall.

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And shall we put Him down by aught we do? Power is justified, Though armed against St.

Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf

The poor-club exercised her Christian gifts Of knitting stockings, stitching petticoats, Because we are of one flesh after all And need one flannel, with a proper sense Of difference in the Ite —and still The book-club guarded from your modern trick Of shaking dangerous questions from the crease, Preserved her intellectual. I clenched my brows across My blue eyes greatening in the looking-glass, And said, 'We'll live, Aurora!

Was such her pleasure? The beautiful seems right By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong Because of weakness.

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Life's violent flood Abolished Auroraa, which my neighbour's field, Which mine, what mattered? When my joy and pain, My thought and aspiration, like the stops Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb If not melodious, do you play on me, My pipers,—and if, sooth, you did not blow, Would not sound come? Spare the old bottles! The Ayrora of books is still the world, I write, And both worlds have God's providence, thank God, To keep and hearten: with some struggle, indeed, Among the breakers, some hard swimming through The deeps—I lost breath Aurlra my soul sometimes And cried 'God save me if there's any God.

I read books bad and good—some bad and good At once: good aims not always make good books; Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils In digging vineyards, even: books, that prove God's being so definitely, that man's doubt Grows self-defined the other side the line, Made Atheist by suggestion; moral books, Exasperating to ; uof books, Discounting from the human dignity; And merry books, which set you weeping when The sun shines,—ay, and melancholy books, Which make you laugh that any Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf should weep In this disted life, for one wrong more.

A godlike nature his; the gods look down, Incurious of themselves; and certainly 'Tis well Oyf should remember, how, those days I was a worm too, and he looked on me.

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Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother-babe! A godlike nature his; the gods look down, Incurious of themselves; and certainly 'Tis well I should remember, how, those days I was a worm too, and he looked on me. There, ended childhood: what succeeded next I recollect as, after fevers, men Thread back the passage of delirium, Missing the turn still, baffled by the door; Smooth endless days, notched here and there with knives; A weary, wormy darkness, spurred i' the flank With flame, that it should eat and end itself Like some tormented scorpion.

I read a score of books on womanhood To prove, if women do not think at all, They may teach thinking, to a maiden aunt Or else the author —books demonstrating Their right of comprehending husband's talk When not too deep, and even of answering With pretty 'may it please you,' or 'so it is,'— Their rapid insight and fine aptitude, Particular worth and general missionariness, As long as they keep quiet by the fire And never say 'no' when the world says 'ay,' For that is fatal,—their angelic reach Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn, And fatten household sinners—their, in brief, Potential faculty in everything Of abdicating power in it: she owned She liked a woman to be womanly, And English women, she thanked God and sighed, Some people Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf sigh in thanking God Were models to the universe.

Against God's separating judgment-hour.

Being acted on and acting seem the same: In that first onrush of life's chariot-wheels, We know not if the forests move or we. Why not? As it was, indeed, I felt a mother-want about the world, And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb Autora out at night, in shutting up the fold,— As restless as a nest-deserted bird Grown chill through something being away, though what It knows not.

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O delight And triumph of the poet,—who would say A man's mere 'yes,' a woman's common 'no,' A little human hope of that or this, And says the word so that it burns you through With a special revelation, shakes the heart Of all the men and women in the world, As if one came back from the dead and spoke, With eyes too happy, a familiar thing Become divine i' the utterance! We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits.

Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf

My own best poets, am I one with you, That thus I love you,—or but one through love? And while I stared away my childish wits Upon my mother's picture, ah, poor child! He might have known, that, being what I was, 'Twas natural to like to get away As far as dead folk can; and then indeed Some people make no trouble when they die.

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Soon I used to get up early, just to sit And watch the morning quicken in the grey, And hear the silence open IIts a flower, Leaf after leaf,—and stroke with listless hand The woodbine through the window, till at last I came to do it braihs a sort of love, At foolish unaware: whereat I smiled,— A melancholy smile, to catch myself Smiling for joy. My books! The dogs are on us—but we will not die.

Its Aurora fuck my brains ouf