It is the poet’s job: Impossible . . . pos’ble; To hear a sound not heard, Describe the flight of birds, To feel a flake of snow, To touch a baby’s glow, To find the place unknown, To sing the song of silence; ‘Tis all this joy from words, It is the poet’s job. It is the poet’s job: Find why a feather’s soft, Why birds still glide aloft, Why mountains rise to joy, Prairies bound to endless,…
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