This round: quieter reading, book-style chapters, and one HH throughout.
THE MODERN POET
Night
By William Blake
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."
A little rhyme. Something to turn over. Tomorrow, a possible answer.
A moment with the words.
WORDS / EVERY HOUR
WORDS / EVERY HOUR
A note on the rotation
Box one belongs to works shared here—pictures, poems, or both—with a new selection each hour. The other three change one at a time every fifteen minutes. One is a Halloween poem through October. Skip any card, or pause while you read.
THE COLLECTION
Stay for a little while.
Browse by category or shuffle
Search words and related subjects, or use a name. You can combine both. Results change as you type.
Nothing here yet. Try another search, or leave a poem of your own.
BEHIND THE WORDS
Find a poet.
Different places. Different lives. A shared human experience.
Search the collection and live public records. Results link back to their sources.
No matching poets in this draft yet.
FOLLOW YOUR CURIOSITY
Someone you might not know.
Two voices from the collection. New suggestions every 30 seconds, or whenever you feel like it.
THE PLACES BEHIND THE WORDS
Closer than you think.
Find poets and deceased philosophers with documented public city connections near you. Start within 250 miles, or expand to 500.
Try a city:
Choose a city or use your location to find poets within 250 miles. No place is assumed for you.
A note on location and privacy
These are approximate city locations—not private addresses or exact writing spots.
City searches go to Open-Meteo. Your device location is used only in this page to calculate distance. Nothing is saved. Distances are straight-line estimates to public places, not private homes or a complete list of local poets.
One artwork for the day. A growing collection to explore. Open a name or portrait for the person behind it. Interpretations are optional.
Look beyond this collection
Search The Met’s public collection by artist, work, place, or subject. Living artists are welcome here, too. Museum results link to the original; protected or unreviewed images stay at the museum.
A husband. A father of two. An aviator on a hobby farm. Just a normal dude who likes poetry—and occasionally writes some.
I built this because reading about a poet, finding their work, then following an interesting thought meant bouncing between a bunch of searches. I wanted the things I like in one place. So I made it. Figured I might as well share.
I spend a lot of evenings here reading, following ideas and leaving little notes. This place keeps growing because I actually use it. If I can make it easier for me, hopefully it’s easier for somebody else, too.
It’s also somewhere to leave my own work so people who know me can read it. If other people find something here, great. If it’s mostly me for a while, well, I was going to be reading anyway.
A little room outside your own head.
Poetry, art, philosophy and the occasional question that follows you home. Read something. Follow the person behind it. See where you end up.
I haven’t submitted any of my work for publication. Asking someone else to accept my art has never been my thing. Nothing against anyone who takes that route; I just wanted somewhere to put mine.
You’re welcome to leave something, too. Use your name, a call sign, or stay anonymous. No profiles, likes or follower counts. Your work stays yours.
Pandora’s box.
I was an infantry Marine, stuck in a cause I didn’t believe in. Thinking through the variables helped keep me alive. Building a place for internet submissions apparently calls for that habit, too: I’m hoping for Shakespeare. I’m prepared for buttholes.
I use AI to screen submissions and help explain sourced thoughts. Passing work goes public; flagged work waits privately for me to review. The little explanations are a way into an idea, not the last word.
THERE’S ROOM FOR YOUR VOICE.
Got something to say? Leave it here.
A poem. A picture. Both. Sign your name, use a pen name, or stay anonymous. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.
Why so much HH? And how does this work?
Right now, I’m most of the crowd. I make a lot, and I built somewhere to put it. I’d like this place to grow beyond the inside of my own head.
Works From Here gives one submitted work the board for an hour. Skip it, search for something, or leave it alone. Nobody’s taking attendance. HH gets no special slot.
There are other voices in the Library and on Home. If you’re reading this in ten years and it’s still mostly my work here, apparently I kept busy. No hidden message. I just needed somewhere to put the poems.
— HH · October 24, 2026
ONLY IN THIS BROWSER
Private image drafts.
Pending review. These images are kept out of the collection. There is no automated screening or public upload service connected yet.
A LITTLE ROOM TO THINK
A thought for the day.
Different places. Different ways of seeing. Deceased thinkers with work that remains in circulation.
For this section, only dead philosophers. The rest of us are still working on our theories.
Find a philosopher or an idea.
Use either field, or combine them. Searches match words and related subjects in this collection.
A note on countries and sources
Country connections use present-day geography; they are not claims about ancient nationality. This is a small starting collection, not a complete world directory. Classical works may have been compiled by followers or published after the author’s death.
Deceased thinkers with a documented work in Wikidata. Search above by name or present-day birthplace country. Subject searches check descriptions and work titles, not full books. Coverage and historical geography are incomplete.
A thought doesn’t have to end with an answer. Leave a question. Leave room.
How the rotation works
894 sourced thoughts and prompts, and growing. Original thoughts posted here join the same rotation.
One thought for the hour. Skip whenever you like. Your own thoughts belong here too—no profile, likes, or comments. Category: Other, unless you choose one.
Original thoughts share the pool with 894 sourced thoughts and prompts. While there are fewer than 20 posted thoughts, one in ten selections comes from here; at 20 it’s one in five, at 50 one in three, and at 100 one in two. Each pool shuffles without early repeats. Skips count as selections. A search can narrow the pool, so the mix then depends on what matches. Leave room for your own reading.
TWO VOICES. ROOM FOR BOTH.
See it another way.
Choose a poet and a poem. Find a similar feeling, or try an emotional contrast. These are suggested readings, not fixed meanings.
YOUR SAVED POEMS
Words you kept.
Saved on this browser. No account, public count, or notification to the poet.
A LITTLE RHYME. A LITTLE ROOM TO THINK.
Riddle of the day.
Some have answers. Some open another door. Give it a day.
Seven days to catch up. A fresh riddle each day, with no reruns.
My name is Franklin. Hamilton’s around here somewhere.