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Young Writers Society


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You should check for any Miss Spellings.
While you ponder this, enjoy a poem:


Infant Sorrow (1794)
by William Blake

My mother groan'd! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.


"You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend."
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein