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William Shakespeare

                                         She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? — William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene IV

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American Culture · American Literature · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Epic Poetry · Excerpt · Imagism · Modernism · Nobel Prize in Literature (1948) · Passage · Poetry

T.S. Eliot

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T.S. Eliot

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British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Philip Gross

Wind flowers in the mist                             as if dark-grown, as spindly as whims, off the grey coast where there’s no horizon but one we infer, where they walk or sleepwalk, in their middle distance of just-possibility                                considering all this in their absent and abstracted way, three-petalled, unpeeling themselves: loves me loves me not —… Continue reading Philip Gross

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