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Dear Friends Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, Nor counsel me, not pity me; nor say That I am wearing half my life away For bubble work that only fools pursue.
And if my bubbles be too small for you, Blow bigger then your own: the games we play To fill the frittered minutes of the day, Good glasses are to read the spirit through.
And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; And some unprofitable scorn resign, To praise the very thing that he deplores; So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, The shame I win for singing is all mine, The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours. Edwin Arlington Robinson |