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Unformatted text preview: Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangmans lime. The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weathers wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. And I am dumb to tell the lovers tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. Dylan Thomas...
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This note was uploaded on 09/29/2011 for the course IH 0852 taught by Professor Benin during the Fall '09 term at Temple.
- Fall '09