'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'
In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start.
As a rule, it was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.
Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.
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