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‘The path to Truth is in the dreaming heart,’ the Poet tells us.”
Sometimes it felt to him that the world was heavy, that the air, thick with sorrow, draped over his mind and body and vision, like a fog.
“The Poet tells us that impatience belongs to small things—fleas, tadpoles, and fruit flies. You, my love, are ever so much more than a fruit fly.”
there is no limit to what the heart can carry.
