MELISSA

When chill November's surly blast  Made fields and forests bare,  One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth  Along the banks of Ayr,  I spied a man, whose aged step  Seem'd weary, worn with care;  His face was furrow'd o'er with years,  And hoary was his hair.  "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"  Began the rev'rend sage;  "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,  Or youthful pleasure's rage?  Or haply, prest with cares and woes,  Too soon thou hast began  To wander forth, wit

“On the Death of Anne Bronte” by Charlotte Bronte (Victorian) There's little joy in life for me,       And little terror in the grave; I...

Born Again The bunker smelled of stale air and old metal, like rusting time itself. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, my hands shaking as...