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— Carl Sandburg"Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water."
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Long cold nights mark November's return, grey rains fall, wind walks in the bronze oak leaves.
— Gladys Taber
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I once loved a girl, her skin it was bronze With the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn I courted her proudly but now she is gone Gone as the season she's taken
— Bob Dylan
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