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My muse sits forlorn she wishes she had not been born she sits in the cold no word she says is ever told.

-Stevie Smith

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My Muse Sits Forlorn She Wishes She

Stevie Smith

My muse sits forlorn she wishes she had not been born she sits in the cold no word she says is ever told.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"my muse sits forlorn she wishes she had not been born she sits in the cold no word she says is ever told."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Stevie Smith</footer>
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More From Stevie Smith

We all know of course, that we should never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever fiddle around in any way with electrical equipment. never.

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent if the unheard, unspoken word is unspoken, unheard; still is the spoken word, the word unheard, the word without a word, the word within the world and for the world; and the light shone in the darkness and against the word the unstilled world still whirled about the center of the silent word. oh my people, what have i done unto thee. where shall the word be found, where shall the word resound? not here, there is not enough silence

I was versace's muse, i was valentino's muse, i was alaia's muse, lancetti's muse, calvin klein's, halston's. i could go on and on.

I wept when the muse ulla bent over me. blinded by tears i could not prevent her from kissing me, i could not prevent the muse from giving me that terrible kiss. all of you who have ever been kissed by the muse will surely understand that oskar, once branded by that kiss, was condemned to take back the drum he had rejected years before, the drum he had buried in the sand of sapse cemetery.

I’m cold,' snowden said softly, 'i’m cold.' 'you’re going to be all right, kid,' yossarian reassured him with a grin. 'you’re going to be all right.' 'i’m cold,' snowden said again in a frail, childlike voice. 'i’m cold.' 'there, there,' yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. 'there, there.' 'i’m cold,' snowden whimpered. 'i’m cold.' 'there, there. there, there.

She smiled. she knew she was dying. but it did not matter any longer. she had known something which no human words could ever tell and she knew it now. she had been awaiting it and she felt it, as if it had been, as if she had lived it. life had been, if only because she had known it could be, and she felt it now as a hymn without sound, deep under the little whole that dripped red drops into the snow, deeper than that from which the red drops came. a moment or an eternity- did it matter? life, undefeated, existed and could exist. she smiled, her last smile, to so much that had been possible.

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