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[The above text, is, of course, by Henry David Thoreau. It was written circa 1850/60. It struck a chord with me, as i'm sure it did my father, a little bit of an antiquarian when it came to literature and the arts, from whose little Penguin Edition book, sent to him from Australia, by Retta, in 1999, i copied-out this paragraph. My father said he did not care for "modern poetry". The most modern he got was to read the poetry of Thomas Hardy and William Barnes, due to the fact that we moved to Dorset, from Hampshire, in 1986. He was not interested to browse through my own library, under his own roof. i note this, not to disparage, simply to give you, the blog reader, a little background snapshot. i am so pleased that these books of his find a friendly place amongst my own. And i feel there are worthy contemporary poets whom Thoreau would applaud, just as i applaud Thoreau himself, writing some 160 years ago.]
[The present-day Goldy Hermitage was my father's house from 1986 to 2006.]
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bernard hemensley
11 / September / 2015
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