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Still much to read, but too late
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Speaking and speaking again words like silver bubbles
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Permit me to warn you
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I have not even been in the fields
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Her kindliness is like the sun
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His mother stepped about her kitchen, complaining in a low voice
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Rooted among roofs, their smoke among the clouds
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The Baby woke with curved, confiding fingers
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On the counter were red slabs and rolls of beef
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April
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