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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Tuesday, 6 March 2012

Cento [attribution]

The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast. [Dylan Thomas]
My enemy had bidden me as guest. [Norman Cameron]
How he would place his hand beside his ear, [Samuel Taylor Coleridge]
O where are you going? Stay with me here! [W.H. Auden]
The clouds cast moving shadows on the land.  [Philip Larkin]
I fly to thee, and fully understand [George Herbert]
No genuine insight ever comes to her.  [William Wordsworth]
I am the lost heart of a murderer [Margaret Atwood]
The daughter, with hands outstretched to the fire [Stephen Spender]
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire; [Samuel Taylor Coleridge]
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; [Omar Khayyám/Edward FitzGerald]
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain. [Vladimir Nabokov]
So through that unripe day you bore your head, [Philip Larkin]
Impinging on the slow shores of the dead.  [Kenneth Allott]
And all thy heart lies open unto me. [Alfred, Lord Tennyson]
Like life and fear, a dark reality.  [Percy Bysshe Shelley]
Your body that includes everything [Margaret Atwood]
Are you prepared for what the night will bring?  [Philip Larkin]
Love paired ascends as beating wings in flight – [keyfeatures]
proud nowhere of earth’s most prodigious night [e.e. cummings]
All things recall one heart-sick memory;- [Walter de la Mare]
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. [Alfred, Lord Tennyson]
Buds of invention many a hundred year, [Thomas Carew]
Gleam delicately through the azure clear;   [John Keats]
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, [John Keats]
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; [W.B. Yeats]
We too eat and grow fat, you aren’t content, [Margaret Atwood]
When I walk out, I am a great event.  [Sylvia Plath]
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; [John Donne]
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; [Thomas Carew]
But you are you, Time is not yours alone, [David Gascoyne]
I can reduce all feelings but this one. [Lord Byron]
If hands could free you, heart, where would you fly?  [Philip Larkin]
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by,  [William Shakespeare]
Yet works on uselessly with shortened breath.  [Philip Larkin]
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?  [Sylvia Plath]
The still, sad music of humanity,  [William Wordsworth]
So much for art.  So much for prophecy.  [Margaret Atwood]

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