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All English Sonnets


Avalanche, the mountain with a deafening thud,
Containing trees uprooted, tons of rock,
Pour out upon the highway mixed with mud,
With nary an other purpose than to block,

Our frantic rush for what we haven’t got,
And dwell upon the purpose of our rush,
To ask us whether we have heard or not
The moaning mountain’s wind or songs of thrush?

Perhaps, it knows that unless stopped this way,
No, we never condescend to brook
Obstacles in our path or any delay,
Or we will never ever want to look.

And see how the floody mouth of May
Can rule the roost on a rainy day.

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