It’s easy to think of Christina Rossetti (1830–1894) as a caricature of her own extremes: morbid and (as other of her poems we have run in the Sun suggest) maybe a little hysterical, certainly strange ...
Patting its light all over the table and chairs and fridge, And the wind that tickled the tree outside, And so the room was a mess of shapes and shadows. I watched my fingers stretch across the ...
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