Nimble wrists and arching brows,
trained to make time pause—
and think thoughts yet unthought—
where did they go? Or,
to be more exact:
into whom could they pass?
For what is truly learned
is not what is merely known,
but what is long
and well practiced—
yet practiced so
that nothing is rehearsed
until the letter kills
what once moved.
Instead, we have a bland,
ironed triteness—
a routine, deadening Eden,
full of hearts
lost not to innocence,
but to needs sans measure.
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