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For nations vague as weed, For nomads among stones,...

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"O what unlucky streak Twisting inside me, made me break the line?...

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Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life? Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork and drive the brute off?

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And yet spend all our life on imprecisions, That when we start to die Have no idea why.

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Endlessly, time-honoured irritant, A bubble is restively forming at your tip....

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Since the majority of me Rejects the majority of you, Debating ends forthwith, and we Divide.

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You still might trace Uncalled-for to this day Your person, your place.

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... everyone young going down the long slide To happiness, endlessly.

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Sixty years ago they smiled At lover, husband, first-born child....

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... a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here.

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All that's left to happen Is some deaths (my own included). Their order, and their manner, Remain to be learnt.

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And the waves sing because they are moving. And the waves sing above a cemetery of waters.

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And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.

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Half life is over now, And I meet full face on dark mornings...

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Can even death dry up These new delighted lakes, conclude Our kneeling as cattle by all-generous waters?

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And yet the sun pardons our voices still, And berries in the hedge...

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In fact, may you be dull If that is what a skilled,...

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My mother, who hates thunderstorms, Holds up each summer day and shakes It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there....

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Life is an immobile, locked, Three-handed struggle between...

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Books; china; a life Reprehensibly perfect.

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