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What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must Do.
-Elizabeth Bishop
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What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must
Elizabeth Bishop
What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must Do.
Views: 19
Topic
Men
Moths
More From Elizabeth Bishop
I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.
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Hoping To Live Days Of Greater Happiness, I Forget That Days Of Less Happiness Are Passing By.
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It Was Cold And Windy, Scarcely The Day To Take A Walk On That Long Beach Everything Was Withdrawn As Far As Possible, Indrawn: The Tide Far Out, The Ocean Shrunken, Seabirds In Ones Or Twos. The Rackety, Icy, Offshore Wind Numbed Our Faces On One Side; Disrupted The Formation Of A Lone Flight Of Canada Geese; And Blew Back The Low, Inaudible Rollers In Upright, Steely Mist.
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Time To Plant Tears, Says The Almanac. The Grandmother Sings To The Marvelous Stove And The Child Draws Another Inscrutable House.
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It Is Like What We Imagine Knowledge To Be: Dark, Salt, Clear, Moving, Utterly Free.
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