The Gift, Nabokov

“A lyric possibility flitted past, singing quite close to his ear.  Thank you, my land, for your most precious … I no longer need the sound “oticed”: the rhyme kindled life, but the rhyme itself is abandoned.  And maddest gifts my thanks are due … I suppose “meshes” waits on the wings.  Did not have time to make out my third line in the burst of light.  Pity.  All gone now, missed my cue.*”

–Nabokov “The Gift”

*Don’t you just hate it when this happens.

 

 

 

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