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I know I would not want to live
If poetry and music died,
Though now I feel it's safe to say
That words in music will abide.
If Sappho still is selling books
From her damp tomb, these many years
There still is hope for lesser men;
Their words will safeguard love and tears.
Someday our books will turn to ash
As steamy landscapes scorch their ink;
But still the kernel will not die
So long as thinking creatures think.
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