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Twelve March Poems

 MARCH MAD

 
 
“March Snow”
 
There is something hopeful about March,
something benevolent about the light,
 
and yet wherever I look snow
has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold
 
is so unexpected, so harsh,
that even the spider lily blooming
 
on the windowsill seems no more
than another promise, soon to be broken.
 
It is like a lover who speaks
the passionate language of fidelity, but
 
when you look for him, there he is
in the arms of winter.
 
— Linda Pastan
 
* * *
 
“March morning unlike others”
 
Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.
Crawling in prone stupor of sun
On the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,
Still-wings, each
Magnetized to the other,
Float orbits.
Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.
A raven, under the hill,
Coughing among bare oaks.
Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.
Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough
Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.
 
The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled
Out into the sun,
After the frightful operation.
She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,
To be healed,
Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,
Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling
Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.
While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know
She is not going to die.
 
— Ted Hughes
 
* * *
 
“Sunny Day in March”
 
Even the weathercock turns with the sun on such a day.
It must be spring. Outside the cellar wall the cat
has found himself shelter. He’s asleep, no doubt,
but his fur is well puffed up and his paws
well tucked under. A fly has been tempted out
from a crack in the warm plank wall — starts
buzzing. Soon stiffens. It’s too cold.
 
— Olav H. Hauge
translated from the Norwegian by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“A Death in March”
 
Even so the Spring goes forward.
The rind of the trees weepy with sap. No spigot to carry it off.
From here to the other side, ice is motley. The river’s current
expression: a stutter of ice cakes on the shore. Fret of spume.
Some days, though, we waken to snow,
fugacious erasure of mud and broken branches.
We feel the setback. Want the spectacular squalor
of Spring: its colourless smear. There’s no word for that.
For snow falling, fugue slow, through fog. Earth and air
unable to settle what it’s to be. Now is after. Or, ahead?
Interrugnum: Its beauty is brutal. A raw wind through bereft.
 
— Anne Compton
 
* * *
 
“Spring Equinox Full Moon”
 
I breathe to you
love in the south of the many
months of spring
hibiscus in dark hair water
at the source
shadows glistening to hips
thighs slender sunset shining shores
 
fingers rolled fragrant leaves
presence of deep woods
earth veiled in green drift
that hides running
of small airs
untraceable fine sounds
passing as on a face
feet first drops of rain on a mountain
hands greeting flowers
holden stolen flowers
 
closed eyes of every creature
sepia and amber days
back
of tall tree
arms’ glide
voice of rain forests
birds in tree heights
throat of palm
 
wrist of palm
palm of palm
morsel breasts
melon navel waist of high waterfall
surf laughter face hearing music
body of flight
secret
beach
 
away from you on a corner of the earth
I want to think for six hours of your hair
which is the invention of singing
daughter of islands
born in the flood of the fish harvest
I see long mornings
lying on your hair
I remember looking for you
 
— W. S. Merwin
 
* * *
 
“March 2003”
 
In March exact shadows on snow,
blue in the spectrum overtakes lavender;
the pillows of vapor at a slow bedroom gallop.
 
Up, up, the whistle pierces; the burn
of one and one, couples the rising
yearn, twin twine, dare,
and thickening flash in shoals.
 
Even deep-rooted conifers,
their green wax fangs open,
hustling in the languorous swells.
 
— Ruth Stone
 
* * *
 
“Unknown Things”
 
were set before me on earth .
But once I touched them I’d known them
right back from the blinding sight I caught
of the glacier by whose foot red and golden
birds foraged in the shadow of tall mammoths
and the noise I heard from the bells and the smell
of church porches, earth in March, so many springs . . .
Every day tools they were. A hammer, a saw and
the things which people during the time they have on earth
learn the names of, and cut into each other with.
 
— Henrik Nordbrandt
translated from the Danish by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“March 21”
 
The vernal equinox is to blame
for the celestial uproar, Anne
Carson said, and nothing surprises
me more than the streaks of white
sunlight this morning with Dexter
Gordon’s version of “Tangerine”
in my mind the day is a rhyme
the pencil broke, no need to shout,
I want a girl to write sonnets about
in college & love is the food
that nourishes what it consumes
in springlike days in furnished rooms
I’m hungry, please come and touch me
and I’ll whisper your name the only
thing missing in this picture is you
 
— David Lehman
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A bear under the snow
Turns over to yawn.
It’s been a long, hard rest.
 
 
Once, as she lay asleep, her cubs fell
Out of her hair,
And she did not know them.
 
It isk hard to breathe
In a tight grave:
 
So she roars,
And the roof breaks.
Dark rivers and leaves
Pour down.
 
When the wind opens its doors
In its own good time,
The cubs follow that relaxed and beautiful woman
Outside to the unfamiliar cities
Of moss.
 
— James Wright
 
* * *
 
“If I Could Paint Essences”
(Hay on Wye)
 
Another day in March. Late
rawness and wetness. I hear my mind say,
if only I could paint essences.
 
Such as the mudness of mud
on this rainsoaked dyke where coltsfoot
displays its yellow misleading daisy.
 
Sch as the westness of west here
in England’s last thatched, rivered
county. Red ploughland. Green pasture.
 
Black cattle. Quick water. Overpainted
by lightshafts from layered gold
and purple cumulus. A cloudness of clouds
 
which are not likie anything but clouds.
 
But just as I arrive at true sightness of seeing,
unexpectedly I want to play on those bell-toned
cellos of delicate not-quite-flowering larches
 
tht offer, on the opposite hill, their unfurled
amber instruments — floating, insubstantial, a rising
horizon of music embodied in light.
 
And in such imagining I lose sight of sight.
Just as I’ll lose the tune of what
hurls in my head, as I turn back, turn
 
home to you, conversation, the inescapable ache
of trying to catch, say, the catness of cat
as he crouches, stalking his shadow,
 
on the other side of the window.
 
— Anne Stevenson
 
* * *
 
“Three Things That Make Me Outrageously
Happy in March”
 
Begin with the evergreen Clematis montana. Shy
about opening, blooms pulse into view
a few at a time against the night sky. Some
morning, a creamy tsunami
sweeps over the chain-link fence in a spring
seizure of yearning. Drenches the passerby in
dizzying scent and charges winter’s
dark air without warning.
 
Next, the black umbrella
ribs of Styrax japonica open to rain. Their
delicate green incipient leaves
reverse the gradual losses of autumn. remember
this overture to the Japanese Snowbell
symphony in May when it’s time to clean up
the carpet of dried flowers and pods, time to
cart uprooted seedlings away.
 
When navel oranges
kissed by lazy California sun, glow like
moons in every supermarket, I go
crazy, buy all I can carry. At home, they
tumble from the sack to kiss my eager lips, and as
that nectar of the gods floods my veins, I live
in lovers’ paradise every juicy moment
of Seattle rains.
 
— Madeline DeFrees
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A Caribbean airflow
shampoos the brook.
The deepsea deepwarm look of
sky wakes green below
amid the rinds of snow.
 
Though all seems melt and rush,
earth-loaf, sky-wine,
swept to bright new horizons
with hill-runnel, and gash,
all soaked in sunwash,
 
far north, the ice
unclenches, booms
the chunks and floes, and river brims
vanish under cold fleece:
the floods are loose!
 
The sullen torn
old skies through tattery trees
clack, freezing
stiffens loam; the worn
earth’s spillways then relearn
how soaring bliss
and sudden-rigoring frost
release
without all lost.
 
— Margaret Avison

STOLEN HANDS – Promote Yourself

handsxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunday Evening…
All ready I’ve
Suffered enough
Of this
Incurable
Hopeless rage.
I sit
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
From blood
To words
On this unforgiving page.

See I once
Held hands
That i
Stole
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Grace.
Now my hands
Lie
Only to my
Own skin
The punishment
I deserve
There is no longer
Solace in a
Beautiful face.

I betrayed
My own
Beating innocence
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I’ve discovered
Is beauty
Returning
As hate.

Gabriel Denver

Tryst

Butterflies fly in my heart
And the sky smile casting light
When the thoughts take birth

Of you and feel immense mirth….

Dancing water of sea sings
On itself music and melody
And the birds on their wings
As amass make merry at our tryst…

Written by: Narendra Rai
Talhar Badin, Sindh…

 

Under The Greenwood Tree by William Shakespeare – Famous poets

tree2

Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i’ the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas’d with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

  by William Shakespeare 
YOUR  FAVOURITE  POEM SENT IN BY YOU
WHATS YOURS ?
SEND TO  : poetreecreations@yahoo.com

Natures rest

scarcrow

Whilst the lilies blaze

In the summer rays

The butterflies dance

In their summer romance

The robin awaits

The fresh worms to escape

From the ground

They tease, until they are found

Where gardeners sow

Fresh veg to grow

Potatoes, leeks and marrow

The scarecrow stands so proud

Thankful for the sunshine now

He watches with an evil eye

When the birds reluctantly pass by

Roses parade along the fence

Flirting with the bees,

Soaking up their heavy scent

Capturing the moment

Of this summer scene

Gillian Sims

Send your poetry to gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

Summer

the_four_seasons

Days start to get shorter as the seasons change

Each has what they feel is their favorite time

Whether Spring or Fall, Winter or Summer

Voicing that preference is not any real crime.

 

Winter has to be my least favorite season

The sun can be pretty reflecting on fresh snow

Drinking hot cocoa and cuddling, curled by a fire

But unfortunately I can’t stay in 3 months, I know.

 

Spring and Fall give a change that is welcome

But they don’t seem to last long enough for me

The gentle rains on the roof as you try to sleep

Just hope there is no damaging weather to see.

 

Summer will always be my favorite time of year

Sure it gets hot, but so much better on my bones

Lay by the pool or straddle the bike for a day trip

Not to mention bodies in all those tanning tones.

 

I recognize others have their reasons for a choice

Whatever season they prefer that differs from mine

Guess that us just another example of personality traits

 

Enjoy what you will, let me have months of sunshine

Charles Townsend

Panthalassa – Promote Yourself

oceanxxxx

They say you can drown
In just a few inches of water

Well I drowned that night

As naked as the day
That I wish I wasn’t born on
In the tepid water
Of what looked like a bathtub to you,
But was Panthalassa for me.

It was our last night together –
You said
You’d lost your warmth towards me –
You said

I sat there.
Water circling iceberg knees.
In your arms
Violently weeping for an hour and a half.
No me
No body or being
Just melancholy.

And the hope that you would lower me
Into that tepid water.

I drowned that night.

Or at least wished that I had.

 Christopher Flame
christopherflame.wordpress.com

THE MIST

mist

It rolls over the hills,
A mystic splendour to transform,
Like a mantle of gossamer beauty,
As the night gives way to the dawn.

It engulfs the spider’s web,
Glistening in the morning cold,
Jewels of exquisite beauty,
Bedecked with silver and gold.

It creeps along the greenery,
Then freezers in the night,
Jack Frost pays a visit,
To create a carpet of white.

It moves in ghostly silence,
To swallow everything around,
Like a phantom possessed,
I t visits without a sound.

Its one of natures many gifts,
That bedecks this world of ours,
She spins a web of beauty,
That covers the trees and flowers.

It creates a blanket of secrecy,
Of everything it has kissed,
Clings to Mother Nature,
That’s the toil of the mist.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

The Month of April

 

april mmmmm

 The Month of April

“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”
–  Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926 

 

“And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”
–  Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant 

 

“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
–  Omar Khayyám

 

“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
–  Mark Twain

 

Note:  This webpage is now updated and maintained at a new location

 

“Spring would not be spring without bird songs.”
–  Francis M. Chapman

 

“That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ.
And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.”
–  Winifred Mary Letts

 

“O Day after day we can’t help growing older.
Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger.
Come let’s enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen.”
–  Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring  

 

“The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.”
–  Mathilde Blind, April Rain    

 

“Keep your faith in all beautiful things; in the sun when it is hidden, in the Spring when it is gone.”
–  Roy R. Gilson

 

“Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, 
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, 
Through all the moaning chimneys, and ‘thwart all the hollows and angles 
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. 

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow 
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibers that lift 
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, 
Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift. 

Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire 
(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes– 
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect–as if in the brier, 
Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.”
–  William Dean Howell, Earliest Spring 

 

“When the time is ripe for certain things,
these things appear in different places in the manner
of violets coming to light in the early spring.”
–  Farkas Bolyai 

 

“April’s rare capricious loveliness.”
–  Julia Dorr

 

“You start in April and cross to the time of May
One has you as it leaves, one as it comes
Since the edges of these months are yours and defer
To you, either of them suits your praises.
The Circus continues and the theatre’s lauded palm,
Let this song, too, join the Circus spectacle.”
–  Ovid, Fasti (V.185-190, CE)

 

“Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night–
And I love the rain.”
–  Langston Hughes, 1902-1967, April Rain Song

 

“Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.”
–  Thomas Tusser, A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry, 1557  

 

“Every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment.”  
–  Ellis Peters

 

“I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, or June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.”
–  Robert Herrick, Hesperides, 1648 

 

“Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.”
–  Thomas Carew, The Spring, 1630    

 

 

“This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.”
–  D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring 

 

“When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.”
–  Dallas Lore Sharp, 1870-1929 

 

“If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!  But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity.  To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.”
–  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow   

 

“Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!”
–  Wallace Stevens

 

“Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south! 
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth. 

In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist, 
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst. 

Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days; 
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays. 

Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils, 
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.”
–  Lucy Maud Montgomery, Spring Song

Garden Magic

magic garden
This is the garden’s magic,
That through the sunny hours
The gardener who tends it,

Himself outgrows his flowers.

He grows by gift of patience,
Since he who sows must know
That only in the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling grow.

He learns from buds unfolding,
From each tight leaf unfurled,
That his own heart, expanding,
Is one with all the world.

He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending back a sign
Of grace, and ev’ry shower becomes
His sacramental wine.

And when at last his labors
Bring forth the very stuff
And substance of all beauty
This is reward enough.
-MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL

Please send your poetry to:gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

The Rain

 


The wet shiny glistening droplets
Appear like jewels

Sprinkled on the window pane
Rapping like a thousand birds saying,
‘listen to the rain’
Across the sky a formation

Of colours start to form,
Building up to a rainbow
The aftermath of storm,
Behind a distant cloud

Peeps the round globe of the sun
Sending heat drying the earth,
Also tear-like droplets are sent

flushing, like washing life’s troubles

To ground then to grate,
For that is all they are worth.

 

Sandra Cameron

The Flower

 
eswar-69019-src
 
The flower was planted with the care it needed
The feelings were there to want it to bloom
It was cared for with the love that it deserved
Food, water, love, it was even given room.
 
Over time something happened that caused neglect
Whether stress or pressures, it wasn’t clear
But the weeds grew up from the lack of attention
And soon it was as if it wasn’t even there.
 
It was then that someone else found the flower
Seeing the beauty that should have been seen
Taking the time to care for it with such love
Knowing that is was vibrant, refreshing, when clean.
 
The flower finally had someone who wanted to care
Given the love and attention it could finally shine
Life is like that when we are oppressed by a ghost
Maybe someone will come along to let you know you are fine.
Charles Townsend

Pastures New

 

With tints of grey in the sky
Brave yet unsure

Of dawn and all its glory,
New dreams await with passion

The poet with a story,
So pen to pad lets once again

Greet the day anew,
Sunflowers swaying glistening
Moist from new dawns dew,
Other thoughts can wait awhile
I know he would agree,
He would want me kneeling

Tending plants and flowers smiling,
Not crying on my knees

Sandra Cameron ©2012

Hands – villanelle – Promote Yourself

woman-walking-hand-in-hand-in-studio-silhouette-isolat

 

Holding hands with someone special
Such electricity flowing between both
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

We hold hands with many as we grow
There comes a time when we have more
Holding hands with someone special.

 

Thoughts return to bring us even closer
Remember a touch or a smell that excites
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

Feelings grow and we just seem to know
When fingers lace together without thought
Holding hands with someone special.

 

For some it is might last only a day

Occasionally we find someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

A lifetime can seem to be summed up
Looking back at all those moments shared
Holding hands with someone special
Creating memories that last much longer.

 

by Gray Poet

Charles Townsend

The Spider by the Gwydir;

redback-spider
The Spider by the Gwydir;
By the sluggish river Gwydir
Lived a wicked red-back spider
And he was just as wicked as can be

And the place that he was camped in
Was a rusty Jone’s jam-tin
In a paddock by the showground
Near Moree

Near him lay a shearer snoring
He’d been on beer and boozing
All through the night
And all the previous day.
And the rookin’ of the fookers
And the noise of showtime spruikers
Failed to wake him from the trance in which he lay.

Then a dainty little sheila
Wit a slimy looking spieler
Came along collecting wood to make a fire
Said the spieler, He’s a boozer,
He’s gonna be a looser,
If he isn;t you can christen me a liar.

Hustle round and keep nit honney
While I fan the mug for money
We’ll have some little luxuries for tea
But she said no don;t be silly
Ho home and boil the billy,
You can safely leave the mug to little me.

She circled ever nearer
Closer to that dopey shearer
Who was lying there all fast asleep and snug
But she did not see the spider
Who was ringin’ close beside her
For her mind was on the money and the mug.

The spider sighted dinner
He’d been daily growin’ thinner
He’d been fasting and was hollow as a drum.
As she eyed that bulging pocket
He darted like a rocket
And bit that rookin’ sheila on the bum.

The sheila started squealing,
Her clothes she was unpeelin’
To hear her cries would make you feel forlorn.
One hand the bite was pressin’
The other was undressin’
And she reached the camp the same as she was born.

Then the shearer pale and haggard
Woke and back to town he staggered
Where he caught the train and gave the booze a rest.
But he’ll never know the spider
That was camped beside the Gwydir
Had saved him sixty smakkers of the best.

anonymous

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM  SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOURS?

SALVE

Wallpaper-Heart-Broken-Hearts-Bullet-Riddled-Heart-A-Bullet-A-Rainbow-485x728

 

A shriek from the realms of the heart
echoes within the veins
Swiping aside the sweet melody
breathing the saddened symphony….

Bruises unseen felt when touched
respire through the open wounds
The salve to soothen the lesion
Has vanished in the gloom…

Words of comfort ne’er
Calm the ache,
as a sojourn
can ne’er blossom flowers
on a dying barren state…

Soumya

I Have Noticed You at Night. – Promote Yourself

facesxxxxxxxx
I have noticed you at night.
Your promise laden presence
Precedes you into every room
And I forget to breathe.
 
I have noticed you at night,
Floating in a cloud of faces
That fade to grey, pale to post scripts
In the light electric of your smile. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
Stolen glances, crowded rooms
And dreamt of drowning (once again)
In pools of cerulean blue. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
Veiled in an air of intimacy
And, if frank, rue the fact it’s worn
For someone else. Not me. 
 
I have noticed you at night,
And found, despite myself,
I celebrate your living,
And  am blessed  to see you loving.
 Christopher Leach

Hillside, Narcissus – Promote Yourself

narcissis

There’s a grassy slope not far away 
Where thousands of Narcissus bloom, 
And I catch my breath, as I watch them sway
Tossing their sweet perfume.

Gaily they nod their dear little heads 
And smilingly welcome me,
As they spring up fresh from their winter beds,
Eager for company.

Their round white faces fair and clean 
Are purer than frost or snow,
And I thank the hands, tho’ now unseen; 
That planted them, long ago.
-NORA MC FARLANE 

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