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Poem by Eleanor Farjeon
Words and the body always have been much pain to me, Little fetters and drags on immensities Never to be defined. I am done with these. Meanings of silence suddenly all grow plain to me. Something still may sing like a joyous flute in me Out of the life that dares to be voiced aloud, But speech no more shall swathe like a burial-shroud Things unencompassable now eloquent-mute in me.
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