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You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
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What falls away is always. And is near.
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A mind too active is no mind at all.
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We think by feeling. What is there to know?
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And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.
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Be sure that whatever you are is you.
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I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
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The darkness has it's own light.
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My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.
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What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
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I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
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In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.
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I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.
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Wake the happy words.
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Civilization is over-rated, but there isn't much else.
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Who rise from flesh to spirit know the fall: The word outleaps the world, and light is all.
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Love begets love. This torment is my joy.
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By daily dying, I have come to be.
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What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.
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In the kingdom of bang and blab.