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Andrew D Thaler@drandrewthaler.bsky.social |
Grass will not make you less grim about the mouth nor dry the damp, drizzly November in your soul. Quietly take to the ship.
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XXX-L Feral Æ A-12s
@tr3vin.bsky.social
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To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying, The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying. West, west away, the round sun is falling. . . . I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me; For our days are ending and our years failing. I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
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