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The poet in 'dry sufficient middle age,' not exactly 'ankle deep in money, thick as leaves,' yet rather more comfortable than as a youth he may really have expected to be, 'need not, does not, strive to compose. He writes.' He now requires 'nothing from poetry but true feeling, no pity, no fame, no healing.' Every day he sees something, it reminds him of something else, and he writes.
Review, 2615 words
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