The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster,Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the

Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence

Light the first light of evening, as in a roomIn which we rest and, for small reason, thinkThe world imagined is the ultimate good. This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.It is in that thought

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