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bplinfocommons:

The Daffodils

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Retrieved from poets.org

theparisreview:

“Only the Mistakes Belong to Us”—Jorge Luis Borges
This tree keeps falling over. I prop it up,it falls again. And the rain fallsday after day like a broken wet record.Here are the birds—tiny, smaller
than birds. And like fresh butcher’spaper, the light so bright it hurts.So the birds are paper and so is the sky.It will be easiest if I draw you a picture,
each of us a different shade of gray.What goes right is an accident. It can’tbe blamed on us. What goes wrong
is almost impossible to see. How quicklyit disappears, like someone’s handinto someone else’s pocket.
—Matthew Thorburn. Art: Rachel Wolfson.
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theparisreview:

“Only the Mistakes Belong to Us”
—Jorge Luis Borges

This tree keeps falling over. I prop it up,
it falls again. And the rain falls
day after day like a broken wet record.
Here are the birds—tiny, smaller

than birds. And like fresh butcher’s
paper, the light so bright it hurts.
So the birds are paper and so is the sky.
It will be easiest if I draw you a picture,

each of us a different shade of gray.
What goes right is an accident. It can’t
be blamed on us. What goes wrong

is almost impossible to see. How quickly
it disappears, like someone’s hand
into someone else’s pocket.

Matthew Thorburn. Art: Rachel Wolfson.

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