z

Young Writers Society


404: Not Found

Oops! This link might be corrupted.
You should check for any Miss Spellings.
While you ponder this, enjoy a poem:


Song (1828)
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro’ the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade!

But thro’ the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love’s flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain:
And only Hilt and Stump remain.


That, sir, is the most frightening battlefield in the world: the blank page.
— Larry McMurtry, Comanche Moon