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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal.
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Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
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I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented ...
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.