Dear is my family, dear my home, and yet I like to leave at times my tended garden, trimly hedged, to watch unruly things that grow and go and tramp alone to watch the violet in deep of woods unplanned and rest my head upon moist weeds, disown all wordly cares. And, as I do, at level with my eyes I see around the violet there is dogshit which would be alright, too, except a war is coming and I have no place to hide my children
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