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Talking to Grief Ah, Grief, I should not treat you like a homeless dog who comes to the back door for a crust, for a meatless bone. I should trust you. I should coax you into the house and give you your own corner, a worn mat to lie on, your own water dish. You think I dont know youve been living under my porch. You long for your real place to be readied before winter comes. You need your name, your collar and tag.
You need the right to warn off intruders, to consider my house your own and me your person and yourself my own dog. Online Source September 1961 This is the year the old ones, the old great ones leave us alone on the road. The road leads to the sea. We have the words in our pockets, obscure directions. The old ones have taken away the light of their presence, we see it moving away over a hill off to one side.
They are not dying, they are withdrawn into a painful privacy learning to live without words. E. P. " It looks like dying" Williams: " I cant describe to you what has been happening to me" H. D. " unable to speak. " The darkness twists itself in the wind, the stars are small, the horizon ringed with confused urban light-haze. They have told us the road leads to the sea, and given the language into our hands.
We hear our footsteps each time a truck has dazzled past us and gone leaving us new silence. One cant reach the sea on this endless road to the sea unless one turns aside at the end, it seems, follows the owl that silently glides above it aslant, back and forth, and away into deep woods. But for us the road unfurls itself, we count the words in our pockets, we wonder how it will be without them, we dont stop walking, we know there is far to go, sometimes we think the night wind carries a smell of the sea Online Source In Mind Theres in my mind a woman of innocence, unadorned but fair-featured and smelling of apples or grass. She wears a utopian smock or shift, her hair is light brown and smooth, and she is kind and very clean without ostentation but she has no imagination And theres a turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.
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Research essay sample on Words In Our Pockets Road Leads To The Sea Quot
