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December 2, 2024

If my praise her grace effaces,
Then ’tis not my heart that showeth,
But the skilless tongue that soweth
Words unworthy of her graces.
Tongue, that hath me so betrayed,
Were my heart but here displayed,
Then were sung her fitting praises.

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Thought:

“What is still here
Before it goes away
Memory is a feeling
If you can feel it it exists”

Dorothea Lasky

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