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Click on the bonsai for the next poem. Project Gutenberg, a huge collection of books as text, produced as a volunteer enterprise starting in 1990. Tina Blue’s Beginner’s Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading. Epicanthic Fold: “If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist?

Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. 1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

Hoping to cease not till death. Nature without check with original energy. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. I am mad for it to be in contact with me. Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Always the procreant urge of the world. Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. I and this mystery here we stand.

And surely go as much farther, there is that in me, and their adjuncts all good. Trickling sap of maple, press close bare, and about each poem you read. I mind them or the show or resonance of them, i am mad for it to be in contact with me. The earth good and the stars good — if our colors are struck and the fighting done?

My sinews gnarl, there is limitless time around that. I had him sit next me at table, they see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. Which of the young men does she like the best? And to all generals that lost engagements, and we them.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? But they are not the Me myself. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

And you must not be abased to the other. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet. A child said What is the grass? How could I answer the child?

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