This dreary, bleak, depressing façade took me back fifty years to an English class at The Rayen School.
The teacher, Mr. Wilson, had crystalline blue eyes, a shock of white hair standing straight up from his scalp, and a beer belly that strained the buttons of his drum-tight Oxford shirt.
The assignment was Poe’s Ulalume.
Despite Wilson’s bored monotone in reciting the lines, and his obvious hatred of us and the school that had kept him in chains for 30 miserable years, I felt a great surge of emotion at these lines:
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