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This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.
— Dylan Thomas
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I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
— John Keats
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