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You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
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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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I have come to a still, but not a deep center, A point outside the glittering current; My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, My mind moves in more than one place, In a country half-land, half-water. I am renewed by death, thought of my death, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. What I love is near at hand, Always, in earth and air.
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When I go mad, I call my friends by phone: I am afraid they might think they're alone.
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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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What falls away is always. And is near.
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The darkness has it's own light.
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Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
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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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Civilization is over-rated, but there isn't much else.
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Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.
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Wake the happy words.
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Be sure that whatever you are is you.
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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.
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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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What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
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The body and the soul know how to play. In that dark world where gods have lost their way.
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I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.