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I feel old, made ancient by too many experiences in not enough time to hold them, "butter scraped over too much bread". Speak to me, I listen well. Hear me and listen if you can - these are the words of my soul.
Stepping forward to the past
on the path you tip toe...
with your face...
The bravest of cowards
is an addict...
I cannot find it.
I cannot reach it...
My head groans
as the world spins in the rhythm...
Poetry is not the turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
there is a rapture on the lonely shore.
There is society, where none intrudes,
by the deep sea, and music in its roar.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know.