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The random poem generator takes the first lines of nearly 3,900 poems to make a new poem. To see the full list of what's included, click here.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
The flood was down in the Wilga swamps, three feet over the mud,
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Wearily, drearily,
O Harcourt, Whom th' ingenuous Love of Arts
Thy voice is on the rolling air,
Repudiation of pleasur is a reason'd folly
Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush

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When all think alike, no one is thinking very much.
— Walter Lippmann