It takes a well-spent lifetime, and perhaps more, to crystalize in us that for which we exist.
But words is like th spots on dice: no matter how y fumbles em, there's times when they jes wont come.
I am not less poet; I am more conscious of all that I am, am not, and might become.
O singers, resinous and soft your songsAbove the sacred whisper of the pines,Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
some genius of the South With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth, Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree, So scant of grass, so profligate of pines
If you have heard a Jewish cantor sing, if he has touched you and made your own sorrow seem trivial when compared with his, you will know my feeling when I follow the curves of her profile, like mobile rivers, to their common delta.
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