Frodo Soup

What exactly was the Romantic Movement? Watch this:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XV_q45Otdic  9 minutes 42 seconds Boat Stealing by William Wordsworth I went alone into a Shepherd's boat, A skiff, that to a willow tree was tied Within a rocky cave, its usual home. The moon was up, the lake was shining clear Among the hoary mountains; from the shore I pushed and struck the oars, and struck again In cadence, and my little boat moved on Just like a man who walks with stately step Though bent on speed.  It was an act of stealth And troubled pleasure. Not without the voice Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on, Leaving behind her still, on either side, Small circles glittering idly in the moon, Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light.  A rocky steep uprose Above the cavern of the willow-tree, And now, as suited one who proudly rowed With his best skill, I fixed a steady view Upon the top of that same craggy ridge, The bound of the horizon - for above

Chainsaw versus the Pampas Grass   It seemed an unlikely match. All winter unplugged, grinding its teeth in a plastic sleeve, the chainsaw swung nose-down from a hook in the darkroom under the hatch in the floor. When offered the can it knocked back a quarter-pint of engine oil and juices ran from its joints and threads, oozed across the guide-bar and the maker’s name, into the dry links.  From the summerhouse, still holding one last gulp of last year’s heat behind its double doors, and hung with the weightless wreckage of wasps and flies, mothballed in spider’s wool . . . from there, I trailed the day-glo orange power line the length of the lawn and the garden path, fed it out like powder from a keg, then walked back to the socket and flicked the switch, then walked again and coupled the saw to the flex – clipped them together. Then dropped the safety catch and gunned the trigger. No gearing up or getting to speed, just an instant rage, the r