The reading window is open. The envelopes are stacking up.
‘Is it true – what Shelley writes me that poor John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review?’ [Letter from Byron to John Murray, 26 April 1821]
There are many ways.
I love the word symposium. I don’t know why.
These days there’s a lot of interest in what poems look like.
Each year the apples take longer to ripen than you remembered.
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