Exeunt - Poem by Richard Wilbur
Piecemeal the summer dies;
At the field's edge a daisy lives alone;
A last shawl of burning lies
On a gray field-stone.
All cries are thin and terse;
The field has droned the summer's final mass;
A cricket like a dwindled hearse
Crawls from the dry grass.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You