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User Image missboessel Posted: Nov 11, 2017 4:55 PM (UTC)
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I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

Carl Sandburg
User Image missboessel Posted: Sep 25, 2017 3:05 PM (UTC)
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He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though--and loathed him. // Mark Twain
User Image missboessel Posted: Sep 2, 2017 7:18 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Aug 24, 2017 2:54 AM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Aug 22, 2017 1:45 AM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Aug 20, 2017 2:14 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Aug 10, 2017 1:27 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Jul 29, 2017 12:00 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Jul 15, 2017 5:40 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Jul 5, 2017 2:26 AM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: May 20, 2017 7:30 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: May 14, 2017 1:31 AM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: May 4, 2017 1:39 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: May 1, 2017 9:07 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Apr 12, 2017 6:37 PM (UTC)
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Baby Turkish Kahvaltı for His First Birthday
User Image missboessel Posted: Apr 4, 2017 2:18 AM (UTC)
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The dancing girls here...after a long night of it...
The long beautiful night of the wind and rain in April,
The long night hanging down from the drooping branches of the top of a birch tree,
Swinging, swaying, to the wind for a partner, to the rain for a partner.
What is the humming, swishing thing they sing in the morning now?
The rain, the wind, the swishing whispers of the long slim curve so little
and so dark on the western morning sky...these dancing girls here on an April early morning...
They have had a long cool beautiful night of it with their partners learning
this year's song of April. // Carl Sandburg
User Image missboessel Posted: Apr 4, 2017 2:07 AM (UTC)
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Give me your anathema.
Speak new damnations on my head.
The evening mist in the hills is soft.
The boulders on the road say communion.
The farm dogs look out of their eyes and keep thoughts from the corn cribs.
Dirt of the reeling earth holds horseshoes.
The rings in the whiffletree count their secrets.
Come on, you. // Carl Sandburg
User Image missboessel Posted: Apr 4, 2017 1:52 AM (UTC)
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I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion. // Carl Sandburg
User Image missboessel Posted: Mar 23, 2017 11:42 PM (UTC)
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User Image missboessel Posted: Mar 7, 2017 6:14 PM (UTC)
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