Sublime

Still he lived on—year after year, vital and alert, imaginative and energetic, but with nothing to do with his vitality, his imagination and his energy except to bottle them up, feeding on himself.

“Ross Wilcox’s a prat, not a poet. But if you’re going to suggest that I write a poem to Dawn Madden, no way. I’d be the village laughingstock.” “Absolutely, if you compose derivative verses of cupids and cliché, Miss Madden will remain with her ‘prat’ and you will justly earn derision. But if a poem is beauty and truth, your Miss Madden will treas

my mind slid away, like a fish who would not be caught.

For supernatural as the feeling was, and appealing to all things ultramontane to his soul; yet was it a delicious sadness to him.

My voice summoned him to my aid; but I scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement avowals of innocence, the effusions of his pity for me, and his offers of assistance. I did not listen—I answered him not—I ceased to upbraid or accuse. His guilt was a point to which I was in

inchoate