It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.”

― George Eliot, Middlemarch

 

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A swing grinds on its chains.
A child sits pushing.
There’s no eucalyptus,
atlas pine, or flowering ash,
no other child is calling
from the tender modulations of leaves:
just each note
of her ringing hear,
the feeling of being pushed
into the air.

Judith Beveridge

http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poet/item/676/15/Judith-Beveridge

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