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I saw a picture once by Angelo. / “Unfinished,” said the critic; “done in youth;” …
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From their folded mates they wander far, / Their ways seem harsh and wild: …
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The crocuses in the Square / Lend a winsome touch to the May; …
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Not drowsihood and dreams and mere idless, / Nor yet the blessedness of strength regained, …
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A viewless thing is the wind, / But its strength is mightier far …
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The river widens to a pathless sea / Beneath the rain and mist and sullen skies. …
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A poet writ a song of May / That checked his breath awhile; …
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Here at the country inn, / I lie in my quiet bed, …
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Unconquerably, men venture on the quest / And seek an ocean amplitude unsailed, …