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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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Perhaps, The man-hero is not the exceptional monster, But he that of repetition is most master.
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Poetry is the subject of the poem, From this the poem issues and To this returns. Between the two, Between issue and return, there is An absence in reality, Things as they are. Or so we say. But are these separate?
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The dress of a woman of Lhassa, in its place is an invisible element of that place made visible.
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Without a name and nothing to be desired, If only imagined but imagined well.
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I can Do all that angels can. I enjoy like them, Like men besides, like men in light secluded, Enjoying angels.
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The boots of the men clump On the boards of the bridge. The first white wall of the village Rises through fruit-trees. Of what was it I was thinking? So the meaning escapes.
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Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are Twenty men crossing a bridge Into a village.
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A few things for themselves, Florida, venereal soil, Disclose to the lover.
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We agree in principle. That's clear. But take The opposing law and make a peristyle, And from the peristyle project a masque Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness, Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, Is equally converted into palms, Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm, Madame, we are where we began.
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I am the angel of reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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Behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life’s redemption.
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Is it he or is it I that experience this?