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Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad |
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Most wretched men are cradled to poetry by wrong: they learn in suffering what they teach in song |
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My poetry, I think, has become the way of my giving out what music is within me. |
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Nature poets can't walk across the backyard without tripping over an epiphany |
No sight is more provocative of awe than is the night sky |
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