Moving Excerpts From Poetry

He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
W.H. Auden

Dying is an art.
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I have a call.
Sylvia Plath

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
T.S. Eliot

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all
Emily Dickinson

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