who gets that,say, a relationship to the many
sinks only into itself, for depth
--peace of becalmed brows!--
and who foretells like the earlier or later Jack
the poet of love, patience is
all 61 years of it, true
and and precisely because the poets again will
turn into something absolutely true
--Jack's advantage over us--
the pome will cut everything ungrateful off from
us, looking into itself, as in all life
lovable just by itself
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