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That was how it was, each day new and yet the same, finite and never-ending.
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George Herbert, poet and Anglican priest, died of tuberulosis in 1633 at age 40. His friends described his last three weeks in sickbed, attended to by them and members of his family. They recorded his words: "I now look back on the pleasures of my life past, and see in…
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Picnicking In Mt. Misery Cemetery We breathe the damp shade, plum trees shining in a woodland where there are few wrong things I want to remember-- the steel fence of the power company blazing under an arc light is one. On this day of ripening fruit …
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reiteration of sirens I took for granted he said klaxons pounded by palm heel in Staffordshire and Arcata
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This year I did not markthe day of your death.I let it slip by in an afternoonfilled with music you'll never hear,words you'll never read,a chorus of voices raised in protestat the unwavering passage of time.I don't need a numberto know that you are gone.Since you went…
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"Love, against the dying of the light." (An unusual story about George Whitman, former owner of the revered & beloved Shakespeare & Company bookstore in Paris, France.)
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