Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush, -
Weave him a coffin of rush,
Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.
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Books must follow sciences, and not sciences books.
by Rebecca LindenbergThe sky. And the sky above that. The exchange of ice between mouths. Other people's
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My friend says we never write abut anything we can get to the bottom of. For him, this