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| I will dream of Roman streets wandering lost in search of a place or face that can only be found by not searching to return again I will pass this long dark day until the night welcomes me home to recover my health in clean air and yet, I take no joy from breath alone Dear Poets, I fear our poor Keats is at his worse his treasure consumed in a flood of a rising tide from a shrinking world and minds smaller still And as I complete my own ellipse upon the globe I can but wonder at how much larger is the ellipse of one who wrote his name in water Oh, to return there again so I may dream of Philly streets wandering uncertain in place and constant haste that can only be stilled by breathing how long will this posthumous life of mine continue? |
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