Shapes of Clay by Ambrose Bierce
page 52 of 311 (16%)
page 52 of 311 (16%)
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"Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow,
Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, On second thought, _that_! THE WEATHER WIGHT. The way was long, the hill was steep, My footing scarcely I could keep. The night enshrouded me in gloom, I heard the ocean's distant boom-- The trampling of the surges vast Was borne upon the rising blast. "God help the mariner," I cried, "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" Then from the impenetrable dark A solemn voice made this remark: "For this locality--warm, bright; Barometer unchanged; breeze light." "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, |
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