Poetry is a rich, full-blooded whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbers the leaf, the duet of two nightingales, the sweet pea, that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.
Their correspondence was something like a duet between a tuba and a piccolo.
Certain people compared us, I've been mourning the fact that it would have been great to sing a duet.jeff buckley
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