How often, when life’s summer day Is waning, and its sun descends, Wisdom drives laughing wit away, And lovers shrivel into friends!
“The secret is too plain. The pity of it smarts, Makes hot tears spurt: that the soul is not a soul, Has no secret, is small, and it fits Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.“
John Ashbery | “Self-Portrait in Convex Mirror”
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