Thursday, November 21, 2024 Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 licence.

Edwin Markham

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As we go star-stilled in the mystic garden,
All the prose of this life run there to rhyme,
How eagerly then will the poor heart pardon
All of these hurts of Time!
--
III

 
Edwin Markham

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The kiss of the sun for pardon,
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Meanwhile, please pardon us for saying that we have found no music in the language of your letter, no rhyme in your reasoning, no value in your judgments, and no art or education in your performance as a whole.

 
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Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
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Pardon me while I burst into flames
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