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All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty of the meaning never exposed. – From Percy Bysshe Shelley, “A Defence of Poetry”
ailichi:ailichi:i like irish poetry. i like knowing a man called tadhg ó ruaic, fl. 1684, lost a game of cards to a girl called blánaid on purpose because he wanted her to top himyou penetrate my weak defence / teasing me with anxious love / i know
