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Friday, March 4, 2011

I. Loneliness

By Robert Frost

One ough not to have to care So much as you and I Care when the birds come round the house To seem to say good-by;

Or care so much when they come back With whatever it is they sing; The truth being we are as much too glad for the one thing

As we are too sad for the other here- With birds that fill their breasts But with each other and themselves And Their built or driven nests.

How perfect is this?

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