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BROKEN LINES, by                    
First Line: Nature cannot remain in rigid lines
Last Line: A gothic arch of dawn, an oval face.

NATURE cannot remain in rigid lines.
She has too much of beauty. She must bend
The stiff, stern postures of the oaks and pines,
And she must curve the fallen leaves; distend
The quiet sands to arcs in circling wind;
Or sag an arrow nosing on sky-free.
A cliff, defying mallets of the sea,
Will lose its bronze will and be crushed and thinned
Until it is a lifted cup, a bowl.
Nature is like a sculptor, with strange stone,
Who loves the broken: draperies wind-blown,
A torso with a breast. Her cosmic soul
Hungers for curves: a rising, wavering place,
A gothic arch of dawn, an oval face.

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