Is it possible to speak without betraying myself,
Or worse yet brooding on a midnight
That will never come? Poetry, I am now convinced
Should be a clear and pleasant stream,
Easy on the heart and lungs, compact,
Because the cup of dilute measure
Pollutes the brain, while a shot of eau-de-vie
Quenches every thirst and leaves the vision
Lucid and the heart dissolved from pain.
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