A bicycle can't stand alone because it is two-tired
What's the definition of a will? It's a dead giveaway.
# A backward poet writes inverse.
# With her marriage she got a new name and a dress.
# The man who fell into an upholstery machine is fully recovered.
# He had a photographic memory which was never developed.
# Those who jump off a Paris bridge are in Seine.
# When an actress saw her first strands of grey hair, she thought she'd dye.
# Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead to know basis.
# Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.
# Acupuncture is a jab well done.
# Marathon runners with bad footwear suffer the agony of defeat.
A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf
Whatever
hour you woke there was a door shutting.
From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening
there, making sure--a ghostly
couple.
"Here we
left it," she said. And he
added, "Oh, but
here tool"
"It's upstairs,"
she murmured.
"And in the garden,"
he whispered.
"Quietly,"
they said, "or we
shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us.
Oh, no.
"They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might
say, and so read on a page or two.
"Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil
on the margin.
And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself,
the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling
with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did
I come in here for? What did I want to find?"
My hands were empty.
"Perhaps its upstairs then?"
The apples were in the loft.
And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had
slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room.
Not that one could ever see them.
The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves
were green in the glass.
If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its
yellow side.
Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the
floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My
hands were empty.
The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells
of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound.
"Safe, safe, safe"
the pulse of the house beat softly.
"The treasure buried; the room .
. ." the pulse stopped short.
Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded.
Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a
wandering beam of sun.
So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I
sought always burned behind the glass.
Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman
first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the
rooms were darkened.
He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned
in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe,
safe, safe,"
the pulse of the house beat gladly.
'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue.
Trees stoop and bend this way and that.
Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain.
But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The
candle burns stiff and still.
Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not
to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we
slept," she says. And he
adds, "Kisses
without number."
"Waking in the morning--"
"Silver between the trees--"
"Upstairs--"
'In the garden--"
"When summer came--"
'In winter snowtime--"
"The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like
the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway.
The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes
darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands
shield the lantern.
"Look,"
he breathes.
"Sound asleep.
Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they
pause. The wind
drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly.
Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting,
stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers
and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe,
safe, safe,"
the heart of the house beats proudly.
"Long years--"
he sighs.
"Again you found me."
"Here,"
she murmurs, "sleeping;
in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we
left our treasure--"
Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse
of the house beats wildly.
Waking, I cry "Oh, is
this your buried treasure? The light
in the heart."
RANDOM WORD GENERATOR
priest ...
... a person who has been trained to perform religious duties in the
Christian Church
Many in the Anglican Church are still opposed to women priests.