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Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

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I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.

They loved the sight of your dimming, and flickering starlight. How could they understand what was so intricate to be loved by so many, so intimate.

Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.