So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, hay-stacks, objects of every kind… — Charles Dickens Copy Share Image
The earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of… — Charles Dickens Copy Share Image
