The brightly-painted horse . . .
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The simple contact with a wooden spoon and the word
recovered itself, began to spread as grass, forced
as it lay sprawling to consider the monument where . . .
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering in the open air, . . .
I wanted so ably
to reassure you, I wanted
the man you took to be me, . . .
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours; . . .
The cursive crawl, the squared-off characters
these by themselves delight, even without
a meaning, in a foreign language, in . . .
I was born in minutes in a roadside kitchen a skillet
whispering my name. I was born to rainwater and lye;
I was born across the river where I
was borrowed with clothespins, a harrow tooth, . . .