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icepixieJust read a fic wherein the Sorting Hat has, er, hatlings. Apparently the father is Godric Gryffindor's sword.
*snickers self to death*
Have been flipping through my Edna St. Vincent Millay anthology, the one that my AP English teacher gave me, tonight. It always gives me lots and lots of deathfic plotbunnies, especially "Song of a Second April" and "When the Year Grows Old," and the last two lines of "Lament." "Ebb" and "Thursday" always give me angsty, missed-chance, not-in-love-anymore plotbunnies (hmmmm...hey, Natalie, you might get that McGonagall/Dumbledore piece after all...). The woman is almost always depressing, but I do so love her poetry. I remember I had "For rain it hath a friendly sound / To one who's six feet underground; / And scarce the friendly voice or face: / A grave is such a quiet place" (from "Renasance") as my .sig for a loooong time a few years ago.
Oh, and I think I've found my poem to read when winter in Ohio starts really sucking (Kluge calls late January/early February "cold and isolated enough to make everyone wnat to slit their wrists," or something like that).
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
I've never really paid much attention to Longfellow--obviously, I've heard of him and read "Song of Hiawatha" and a few other things in English classes, but never really formed much of an opinion on the fellow--but I quite like that. Will have to investigate more from him.
In the meantime, trying to finish this weirdfic I've got goin' on...
*snickers self to death*
Have been flipping through my Edna St. Vincent Millay anthology, the one that my AP English teacher gave me, tonight. It always gives me lots and lots of deathfic plotbunnies, especially "Song of a Second April" and "When the Year Grows Old," and the last two lines of "Lament." "Ebb" and "Thursday" always give me angsty, missed-chance, not-in-love-anymore plotbunnies (hmmmm...hey, Natalie, you might get that McGonagall/Dumbledore piece after all...). The woman is almost always depressing, but I do so love her poetry. I remember I had "For rain it hath a friendly sound / To one who's six feet underground; / And scarce the friendly voice or face: / A grave is such a quiet place" (from "Renasance") as my .sig for a loooong time a few years ago.
Oh, and I think I've found my poem to read when winter in Ohio starts really sucking (Kluge calls late January/early February "cold and isolated enough to make everyone wnat to slit their wrists," or something like that).
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
I've never really paid much attention to Longfellow--obviously, I've heard of him and read "Song of Hiawatha" and a few other things in English classes, but never really formed much of an opinion on the fellow--but I quite like that. Will have to investigate more from him.
In the meantime, trying to finish this weirdfic I've got goin' on...
