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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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Abysmal instruments make sounds like pips Of the sweeping meanings that we add to them.
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Nothing had happened because nothing had changed. Yet the General was rubbish in the end.
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A few things for themselves, Florida, venereal soil, Disclose to the lover.
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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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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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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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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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Behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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Without a name and nothing to be desired, If only imagined but imagined well.
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This is old song That will not declare itself...
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I am the angel of reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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Is it he or is it I that experience this?
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life’s redemption.