The summer day is closed - the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again
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There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres.
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Whether to dry In humming pallor or to leap and die.
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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At her best she is all red muscle, humming in and out, cajole by time. Where I go, she goes.
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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery --always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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I like the dollar higher. There's relatively sub-par growth out of Europe, and the U.S. is humming along.
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It's a secret wanting. Lika a song I can't stop humming. Or loving someone you can never have.
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