You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily | Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots |
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It is apparent that there is no death | Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs |
I know what I know | But what does that signify? It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers |
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