FROM their folded mates they wander far,
Their ways seem harsh and wild:
They follow the beck of a baleful star,
Their paths are dream-beguiled.
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'And maybe they hear, and wonder why, And marvel, out in the cold' Fanda... Worth a hundred read...
All true poets are black sheep. Why? The soul of poetry is love and those who live in love are the real poets of this world whether they write or not. We are sometimes lonely and invariably we are misunderstood. But, like Martin Luther, 'Here we stand. We can do no other.'