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by Jane Hirshfield
The dog, dead for years, keeps coming back in the dream. We look at each other there with the old joy. It was always her gift to bring me into the present— Which sleeps, changes, awakens1, dresses, leaves. Happiness and unhappiness differ as a bucket hammered from gold differs from one of pressed tin, Each carries the same water, it says 点击收听单词发音
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