The words that lie written beneath our feet, Titles of saints, these graves in graven stones, The echoes of reformers’ gracious tones Which once and
My heart is a violin With strings played to the breaking, And wound so tight I have no breath Since the hour of waking. Still
A Dash of Color
When we think about books, especially about what type of books we prefer, we tend to categorize them into genres, time periods, literary movements, etc.