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And wild ducks fly overhead,
It ponders something lost and dead,
Then cocks a wary, bewildered eye
And makes a feeble attempt to fly.
It’s quite content with the state it’s in,
But it’s not the duck it might have been.
Ok, I need to admit that I am really weakling in American poetry. :D I will need to read Robert Frost. Don't know Robert Frost, but from English fellows, I admire P.B. Shelley (1), J. Keats (2) and a little bit GG Byron (3). Yea I know gangsters of romanticism. I much more into Lithuanian, Russian and French, a little bit German (only Rilke and Schiller) poets.
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