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.
“Bad is not living, that’s all. Dying is something else. Dying is different to good and bad.”
Clarice Lispector | Near to the Wild Heart
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