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Ralph Waldo Emerson

These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time for them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live… Continue reading Ralph Waldo Emerson

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William Carlos Williams

      we sit and talk I wish to be with you abed, we two as if the bed were the bed of a stream —I have much to say to you       We sit and talk, quietly, with long lapses of silence and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet… Continue reading William Carlos Williams

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Jane Hirshfield

How sad they are, the promises we never return to. They stay in our mouths, roughen the tongue, lead lives of their own. Houses built and unwittingly lived in; a succession of milk bottles brought to the door every morning and taken inside. And which one is real? The music in the composer’s ear or… Continue reading Jane Hirshfield

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Emily Dickinson

Pain — has an Element of Blank — It cannot recollect When it begun — or if there were A time when it was not — It has no Future — but itself — Its Infinite realms contain Its Past — enlightened to perceive New Periods — of Pain. — Emily Dickinson, “Pain — has… Continue reading Emily Dickinson

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