future too tall. Another spring will tell.
Tell another spring
I will be there, and fairer.
I become myself
that throat of swan
that striding giant I decree myself.
We love: in trees, in us, how many die
forward on the blade.
I see men like forests
striding, like swans riding, always
royally: though lowly afoot, striding into death
What we love: there are no blades enough (Fr. Daniel J. Berrigan)
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