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From the category archives:
Poetry
You must give birth
to your images.
They are the future
waiting to be born.
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O Spirit of the Summertime!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
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Deep within an indigo sky,
On a cold dark winter’s night,
A river of stars makes a pathway above
All frost and golden bright.
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It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes.
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