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Poem	If on isle of the sea I have to tarry, With one book, let it be A Dictionary. For though I love life's scene, It seems absurd, My greatest joy has been The printed word. Though painter with delight May colours blend, They are but in his sight Means to an end. Yet while I harmonise Or pattern them, A precious word I prize Like to a gem. A fiddler lures fine tone From gut and wood; A sculptor from stark stone Shapes godlihood. But let me just caress, Like silver birds, For their own loveliness-- Bewitching words.
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