Feed

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So pass my Days. But when Nocturnal Shades
This World invelop, and th’ inclement Air
Persuades Men to repel benumming Frosts,
With pleasant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood;
Me Lonely sitting, nor the glimmering Light
Of Make-weight Candle, nor the joyous Talk
Of loving Friend delights; distress’d, forlorn,
Amidst the horrors of the tedious Night,
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal Thoughts
My anxious Mind; or sometimes mournful Verse
Indite, and sing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,
Or desperate Lady near a purling Stream,
Or Lover pendent on a Willow-Tree:
—John Phillips (1676–1709)

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I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
—Sylvia Plath (1932–1963)