Francis Thompson's "The Hound of Heaven" was one of the poems mentioned in the book I discussed yesterday. Like Coleridge's "Kubla Khan", however, I don't think the rest of the poem can live up to the first five lines:
"I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter."
Have you ever wondered what would happen if teachers became policemen?
"Go back to Hobart and repeat your journey at the *proper* speed."
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