Category: Poetry
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Her intent, I cannot understand. Though I hand her a thousand Tugrik, still, I cannot understand— how the old pain stirs in new scars.
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If we had seen the poet, first ordered to get up and take his place in a comic and indecent ballet, and then, seated and honoured with wine and spontaneously beginning his tragic lay at the inner prompting for a goddess, we should never again forget the distinction.
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Not as a dove, the Spirit came, But He proclaimed in licking flame.
The Locus 