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a word that breathes distinctly

a word that breathes distinctly - ei ld Nights-Wild Nights...

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he trees are coming into leaf ke something almost being said; he recent buds relax and spread, heir greenness is a kind of grief. it that they are born again nd we grow old? No, they die too, heir yearly trick of looking new written down in rings of grain. et still the unresting castles thresh fullgrown thickness every May. st year is dead, they seem to say, egin afresh, afresh, afresh. Wild Nights--Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile--the Winds-- To a Heart in port-- Done with the Compass-- Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor--Tonight-- n Thee! Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueback cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house,
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