WHERE MY BOOKS GO.
All the words that I gather, And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad
heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving, Storm darkened or starry bright.
W. B. YEATS.
LONDON, January 1892.
YOU ARE READING
❝Dark Academia❞
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