Insect.
R
Robert Crawford
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We do not grasp ourselves, but still drift on
As aimless as a mote in the warm air,
Whose senses take the sweetness of the time,
And in a moment let existence go,
Its tiny death-squeak an indefinite thing
Recorded in the general ear of God.
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
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