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the first smile of any saint, a promise toward the perfection
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When the eyes of me flash their lightning on you,
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She crosses a bridge and then sets it on fire
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New Ending.
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we study partial folds in them alpine jukes,
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26. Plants do not actually sleep.
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If one could get hold of all-of-the-whole-of-you,
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Then it would begin to seem unintelligible,
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I wrote the past in characters
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She looks up, down, at the mice.