| from "No Thanks": 36... e.e. cummings... |
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into a truly curving form enters my soul |
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feels all small facts dissolved by the lewd guess of fabulous immensity |
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the sky screamed the sun died) the ship lifts on seas of iron |
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breathing height eating steepness the ship climbs murmuring silver mountains |
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which disappear(and only was night |
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and through only this night a mightily form moves whose passenger and whose pilot my spirit is |
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