Cézanne - Poem by Alfred Kreymborg
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat.
We could not see him.
We might not have heard him either—
Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
But his step was tremendous—
Are mountains on the march?
He was no man who passed;
But a great faithful horse
Dragging a load
Up the hill.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
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