The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, the glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist.
The Thoroughbreds of Peony Stables
The King steered the mares out of the valley and they began to run as if the wind was chasing them. It was the prettiest sight he had ever seen. He heard gunshots behind them, faster! faster he urged them.
Epitaphs of the War
If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. John Kipling and the Myth of the Great War. Print designed by ArtOutrageous, Etsy