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not i, not i, but the wind that blows through me!
a fine wind is blowing the new direction of time.
if only i let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
if only i am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
if only, most lovely of all, i yield myself and am borrowed
by the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
if only i am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
driven by invisible blows,
the rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the hesperides.

oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
i would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

what is the knocking?
what is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

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no, no, it is the three strange angels.
admit them, admit them.

d.h. lawrence

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