{'fraction_non_alphanumeric': 0.03932584269662921, 'fraction_numerical': 0.0, 'mean_word_length': 4.6643109540636045, 'pattern_counts': {'":': 0, '<': 0, '<?xml version=': 0, '>': 0, 'https://': 0, 'lorem ipsum': 0, 'www.': 0, 'xml': 0}, 'pii_count': 0, 'substrings_counts': 0, 'word_list_counts': {'cursed_substrings.json': 0, 'profanity_word_list.json': 0, 'sexual_word_list.json': 0, 'zh_pornsignals.json': 0}}
For William Cowper, and: Blueprint

All evening I'd been turning pages, plodding through the verse your century left behind. I was after something symptomatic, something in couplets, buffed, complacent, mythy for display—to suggest Wordsworth was right: too often you all mistook the charming surfaces of language for the heart that lay refracted on the bottom, untouched. It was arrogant, self-serving, but I wanted to make a point, and it's easy being unfair to the dead. You were different, of course, appealing in your madness to us who see in madness the authentic. You thought you were damned, and so spent twenty years under a preacher's spell, a widow's companion, writing odes to furniture at the whim of her haughty friends. Slight, placid stuff, but occasionally moving. The plein air portions of "The Task" had tuned the Aeolian Harp. That much I knew, but when I saw your "Epitaph On A Hare," I thought I'd found the mock-heroic meringue that I'd been hunting. Instead I learned again the folly of whittling love's long labors down to disputations of taste. Your poem gave back April twilight, after rain. On a Persian carpet the hare comes to suppressed pause before the terrace doors. It seemed laughable at first, reading this rabbit's requiem exactly two centuries later, noting his taste for pippins, milk, and thistles. But then the parlor began to furnish itself with dusk, darkening like conscience, and when my eyes adjusted I could see you there, motionless, consigned. Damned. By the shadows your sympathies resonate to, damned because you know what's meant by 'no health in us/