8 September 2011

...A poem unfurled from you
Like a loose frond of hair from your nape
To be clipped and kept in a book. What would stern
Dour Emily have made of your frisky glances
And your huge hope?  

Wuthering Heights, Ted Hughes

...The one upright
Among all horizontals. 

Wuthering Heights, Sylvia Plath

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath

Bright Star, John Keats

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