Hell is a half-filled auditorium.
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars: I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
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