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No, no, go not to Tor, neither private mode,
Nor duck-duck-go the tight-rooted, for its secretive wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By anti-cloud sentiment, ruby grape prose of NSA;
Make not your rosary in tinfoil hats,
Nor let the politicians, the doomsayers-media be
Your mournful Psyche. The downy social media
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning HN,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-reddit,
Or on the wealth of globed nerds from afar;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her harsh hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Government—Government that must die;
And NSA, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the lying-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovereign shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
(Originally By John Keats) |