First the breezy dawn.
.
Then I carried the camera inside and inserted its memory card in the computer. Clear away some of that cultivation, I instructed artificial intelligence. And prettify the colors. And make more sky.
Was there ever a paradise that wasn’t always already lost?
What Randall Jarrell said about Robert Frost is also true of Emily Dickinson: her best poems are almost as beloved as her worst. But here’s some scholarship in mitigation.
First the poem: Fr982, as it usually is formatted online.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Second, historical evidence for the genteel pronunciation of “again.” In the sequence beginning at about minute 18:30 of
you’ll hear it: “eggayne.”
Third and decisively, artificial intelligence has motored up at last with aid for the fainting robin. Perhaps the stretcher bearer was Ernest Hemingway.
What I posted to this blog yesterday was a lament that nobody seems to read it except pornbots. On XTwitter, somebody named Lillian liked the lament.
Lillian is a pornbot.
In an email about Ulysses, I typed “Poldy.” GMail autocorrected to
