tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20433842.post4048861517575658740..comments2024-03-07T12:57:35.296-05:00Comments on Varieties of Unreligious Experience: IslandsConrad H. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916542057749474124noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20433842.post-22377508118923862412006-11-28T13:45:00.000-05:002006-11-28T13:45:00.000-05:00Ah, dear Sutor, I can always count on you to broad...Ah, dear Sutor, I can always count on you to broaden my horizons!Conrad H. Rothhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01916542057749474124noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20433842.post-10330623083275367542006-11-28T13:16:00.000-05:002006-11-28T13:16:00.000-05:00In the streets the trees are smelling of semen
lat...<i>In the streets the trees are smelling of semen</i><br /><i>late into the night, and still, after so many weeks, have yet to find a better word than aubade</i> <br /> <br />Aubade? Ha, Conrad, you have certainly been staying awake for too long. After so many hours of consciousness and such a variety of actions and thoughts, the mind starts to acquire a definite kinkiness of its own. <br />So you got stuck on <i>aubade</i>... This type of aubade?<br /><i>Aubade - Lingerie Femme - Soutiens-gorges - String - Tanga - Slips - Culottes - Portes-jarretelles - ...</i> <br />http://www.aubade.comAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20433842.post-11686297669482711972006-11-24T11:11:00.000-05:002006-11-24T11:11:00.000-05:00And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with ...And we are here as on a darkling plain<br />Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,<br />Where unexpectedly-erudite armies clash by night.Conrad H. Rothhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01916542057749474124noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20433842.post-42150163249230800132006-11-24T09:03:00.000-05:002006-11-24T09:03:00.000-05:00YES: in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing ...<i>YES: in the sea of life enisled, <br /> With echoing straits between us thrown. <br />Dotting the shoreless watery wild, <br /> We mortal millions live alone. <br />The islands feel the enclasping flow,<br />And then their endless bounds they know. <br /> <br />But when the moon their hollows lights, <br /> And they are swept by balms of spring, <br />And in their glens, on starry nights, <br /> The nightingales divinely sing;<br />And lovely notes, from shore to shore, <br />Across the sounds and channels pour; <br /> <br />O then a longing like despair <br /> Is to their farthest caverns sent! <br />For surely once, they feel, we were<br /> Parts of a single continent. <br />Now round us spreads the watery plain— <br />O might our marges meet again! <br /> <br />Who order'd that their longing's fire <br /> Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?<br />Who renders vain their deep desire?— <br /> A God, a God their severance ruled; <br />And bade betwixt their shores to be <br />The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.</i><br /><br />Sorry to sully your comments section with Matthew Arnold, but it seemed appropriate. And I quite like it.Raminagrobishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12008850757226541475noreply@blogger.com