As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move.
An ulcer on the big toe
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‘People whose minds are—like [Arthur] Machen’s—steeped in the orthodox
myths of religion, naturally find a poignant fascination in the conception
of thin...
Il y a 14 heures