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All English Sonnets

Two winding trails issue from the hill,
Thickly wooded ,foliage curved one.
And recede each towards the silent watermill,
Which sits along the river- on the run.

Towards overhanging river cliff,
Precariously where sits the town
Where perched a town preciously, as if,
At any moment, it was going to fall,

Into the river below. All in all.
The trails, river, watermill and town
Are parts of an ever-recovering theme,
The patent, I have always, called my own,

Ingredients of my being, what I mean.
This is a thing one can not wait to learn.

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