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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
T.S. Eliot, The Sacred Wood

He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience.
----T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

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Think neither fear nor courage saves us.
Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism.
Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

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