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拜伦之死与1824年巴黎美展 |
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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Tout ce qui est vrai est démontrable.
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I no longer have to do without now,
all colors are translated into sounds and smells. And they ring infinitely sweet like tones. why should I need a book? The wind leafs through the tree; and I know what passes there for words, and sometimes repeat them softly. And death, who plucks eye like flowers, doesn't find my eyes... |
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人生不如小说,小说不如戏剧,戏剧不如诗,诗不如十四行诗,十四行诗不如午夜恍惚的梦
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