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William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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Paralysis

26 lines
Rupert Brooke·1887–1915·Bloomsbury Group
or moveless limbs no pity I crave,That never were swift! Still all I prize,Laughter and thought and friends, I have;No fool to heave luxurious sighsFor the woods and hills that I never knew.The more excellent way's yet mine! And you Flower-laden come to the clean white cell,And we talk as ever -- am I not the same?With our hearts we love, immutable,You without pity, I without shame.We talk as of old; as of old you goOut under the sky, and laughing, I know, Flit through the streets, your heart all me;Till you gain the world beyond the town.Then -- I fade from your heart, quietly;And your fleet steps quicken. The strong downSmiles you welcome there; the woods that love youClose lovely and conquering arms above you. O ever-moving, O lithe and free!Fast in my linen prison I pressOn impassable bars, or emptilyLaugh in my great loneliness.And still in the white neat bed I striveMost impotently against that gyve;Being less now than a thought, even,To you alone with your hills and heaven.