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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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