Every poet is a sole government The beauty of a range so far and wide And even filled with buffalo

, with pride. No border ever built with its cement What only she and all her sonnets spelled: I came I lived I remembered I died For love of love of another I cried And wondered at the folly’s terrible --Its anxious wanderlust and ritual-bondage to ideals with no recourse for all the hearts and souls and selves so forced to live as though living were too real Swing low sweet chariot home to no ones, undifferentiated made noble.

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