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I'm reminded of Louis Macneice's poem Sunday Morning
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
1 comment:
Could have been worse, it could have been polo!
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