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Poems about Philosophy
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On the desert
A silence from the moon's deepest valley.
Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, \
There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.
My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty.
Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight,
The lean black cruisers search the sea.
Supposing that I should have the courage
To let a red sword of virtue
Late, late last night, when the whole world slept,
Along to the garden of dreams I crept.
If I'd got to choose alone
One of all the freights I've known —
Who makes these changes? I shoot an arrow right.
And an astronomer said, \
Leave me, my blamer,
For the sake of the love
Then said a teacher, "Speak to us of Teaching."
And he said:
A spirit sped
Through spaces of night;
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicty of thought,
How does a part of the world leave the world?
How does wetness leave water?
"I ain't no glutton for work," said Bill, "though I done my whack in my day,
An' I'd never say 'No' to a boss's job if such was to c
Writing shit about new snow for the rich
The man who wants a garden fair,
Or small or very big,
One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the becko
"It takes all sorts to make a world, an' the same to make a crew;
It takes the good an' middlin' an' the rotten bad uns too;
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
With sadness I survey our present generation!
Their future seems so empty, dark, and cold,
To what shore would you cross, O my heart? there is no traveller before you, there is no road:
Where is the movement, where is the rest, on that shore?
Time's knife slides from the sheath,
as fish from where it swims.
A god in wrath
Was beating a man;
Every night Thou freest our spirits from the body
And its snare, making them pure as rased tablets.
Man and I are sweethearts
He craves me and I long for him,
The successful man has thrust himself
Through the water of the years,
Insipid writer, you pretend to draw for your readers
The portraits of your 3 impostors;
Learn this now before you are older: Don’t go through life with a chip on your shoulder,
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