To The Ghost Of Willie Yeats - Poem by Anthony Weir
Users of glass have no transparency.
Beyond the tombstone palaces of sensual delight
the ultimate sensuality
is dying. Can anything else we do
in the self-regarding Punch-&-Judy show
of psychoclastic Normality
be harmless - let alone be good?
Words cannot be free
nor silence right...
I say to you:
The only art
that's true is how you mould your heart.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You