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(Becquer.)
You ask me, "What is poesy?" the while you
hold
My raptured gaze with gaze from eyes of blue.
Yea, What is poesy? Would you be told?
Then . . . poesy is you.
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(Campoamor.)
I know not why my sinking spirits grieve,
Nor whence my pale and shapeless longings spring,
Only that I yearn for some dim thing
Whose name I know not, nor whose form conceive.
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