This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
We’re going to be profiling lesser-known Watson actors every day starting today for a week. I just think it’d be a nice change from the continuous BBC!verse, Ritchie!verse, Russian!verse, Rathbone!verse, and Granada!verse postings. Not to say we don’t appreciate those universes! Quite the contrary.
Enjoy and have a lovely day!
-Mod
Yes please! I’m down with that!
You may have noticed that Sherlock has received over 3,000 views less than Celebrity Juice! This is not “a bit not good” this is “a LOT not good” if the views are an accurate representation as to the amounts of votes each has received.
So if you…
From the dull confines of the drooping west
To see the day spring from the pregnant east,
Ravish’d in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly
To thee, blest place of my nativity!
Thus, thus with hallow’d foot I touch the ground,
With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown’d.
O fruitful genius! that bestowest here
An everlasting plenty, year by year.
O place! O people! Manners! fram’d to please
All nations, customs, kindreds, languages!
I am a free-born Roman; suffer then
That I amongst you live a citizen.
London my home is, though by hard fate sent
Into a long and irksome banishment;
Yet since call’d back, henceforward let me be,
O native country, repossess’d by thee!
For, rather than I’ll to the west return,
I’ll beg of thee first here to have mine urn.
Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall;
Give thou my sacred relics burial.
Stephen said, “Have you ever contemplated upon sex, my dear?”
“Never,” said Jack. “Sex has never entered my mind, at any time.”
” —HMS Surprise by Patrick O’Brian (via seakirsten)
And this, dear people of tumblr, is why I love it when other people read Patrick O’Brian. Almost as much as I love reading Patrick O’Brian. You’ve got lots more of those moments ahead, Kirsten!
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing—
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
