I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. There were two sisters, you know. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. Wild. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far.
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