I am a still pond. No matter how many ripples the passing winds and flotsam leave on my surface, nothing, nothing, will ever perturb the serenity of my depths.
' ... From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.
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