Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
That old black magic has me in its spell, That old black magic that you weave so well; Icy fingers up and down my spine, The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.
Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate... but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.
It's in God's hands.
I'm really pale.
I have since wandered among men of many races and many religions.
I went through a stage of writing my cramped hand in tiny books. My two sisters and I did have our Bronte period. My mum is from Yorkshire, and we would go up to the Moors. It tapped into our romantic visions of ourselves.
I have, alas, only one illusion left, and that is the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.
The slavery at Bufford's was too fresh in my recollection to let me care to bind myself again. From the time that I took my nose off that lithographic stone, I have had no master, and never shall have any.
From my big beautiful warlock brain, welcome to 'Sheen's Korner' ... You're either in my corner, or you're with the trolls.