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by
Emily Dickinson
No Romance sold unto
No Romance sold unto
Could so enthrall a Man
As the perusal of
His Individual One --
'Tis Fiction's -- When 'tis small enough
To Credit -- 'Tisn't true!
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by
Emily Dickinson
What Inn is this
What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth --
No brimming Tankards flow --
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
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by
Dejan Stojanovic
The Source
There is substance beyond substance,
A mind beyond matter;
It grows from itself,
Follows its own path
Fed only by the desire to live.
That's how matter is born,
How the first poet sings the shamanic song,
How he romances nothingness
With the flower of the mind
Springing out from its source.
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by
Richard Brautigan
The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again
I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I'm sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
her.
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by
Robert Graves
The Last Post
The bugler sent a call of high romance—
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France…
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other broken ones
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”
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