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Chancellor
post Jan 1 2008, 05:22 PM
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If you like poetry, please share some of your favourite poems with us by posting them in this thread!

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vesperala
post Jan 1 2008, 05:24 PM
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SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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Chancellor
post Jan 1 2008, 05:27 PM
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The Wreck of the Hesperus
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughtr,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailr,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtr,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" --
And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!

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Chancellor
post Jan 1 2008, 05:33 PM
Post #4


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Pro Patria Mori
Thomas Moore

When he who adores thee has left but the name,
Of his fault and his sorrows behind;
O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame,
Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love,
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live,
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give,
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.


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vesperala
post Jan 6 2008, 05:27 PM
Post #5


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Counting the Stars
by LostintheWhirlwind

I think I shall write a poem
About writing poems
Simply because
The repetitiveness of that above statement
Amuses me.
Life in general amuses me.
How we all think were so high and mighty
But how were all taken in the end.
How we believe were something great
When really were only flashes of light
Gone a second after one looks away.
Flashes of light striving to leave a mark
But all they leave
Is shadow.
And shadows disappear in the nighttime.
When the stars take the sky, what is left?
Perhaps a new star?
No one counts.
Or maybe a faint memory?
Recollections fade.
And then nothingness.
We are bones in the cold ground
And away we waste
Until judgment day.

But then there is a new light.
A different light
A beacon shining from the small window
Of an attic high above the graveyards.
And there, a pen scratches on silken paper
Turning thoughts into words
And ink into song.
The recollections will never fade completely,
For the music keeps them alive.

So perhaps this wasnt a poem
About forms or rhyming
Or language or fanciful words
That look impressive on a page
Yet have no real meaning.
It was but an idea
A fading recollection
A new star in the sky.



About her poem, the author said:


Who really counts the stars? I know I've tried, but the sky is just so vast, and there are so many identical, sparkling lights. But what about a different kind of star? What about those people in your life that have shone brighter than any star, that have distinguished themselves from the millions of other sparkling lights in the vast sky of life?

The stars will always be there. Those people won't.

Count them while you can.


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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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Chancellor
post Jan 6 2008, 07:32 PM
Post #6


LonelyStar
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QUOTE (vesperala @ Jan 6 2008, 03:27 PM)
About her poem, the author said:

Who really counts the stars? I know I've tried, but the sky is just so vast, and there are so many identical, sparkling lights. But what about a different kind of star? What about those people in your life that have shone brighter than any star, that have distinguished themselves from the millions of other sparkling lights in the vast sky of life?

The stars will always be there. Those people won't.

Count them while you can.

That's lovely - I'm counting . . . ^_^


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Chancellor
post Jan 6 2008, 07:51 PM
Post #7


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The Light Of Other Days
Thomas Moore

Oft, in the silly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the silly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one
Who treads alone,
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!

Thus, in the silly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.


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Chancellor
post Jan 6 2008, 07:56 PM
Post #8


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At The Mid Hour Of Night
Thomas Moore

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.


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vesperala
post Jan 7 2008, 12:18 AM
Post #9


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Robert Desnos (Sent to Auschwitz, for his activities in the French Resistance. Died at Theresienstadt Concentration Camp 1944)



I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?

I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.

O scales of feeling.

I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.

I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.


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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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Chancellor
post Jan 12 2008, 04:48 PM
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Oh For the Swords of Former Time
Thomas Moore

Oh for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them:
When free yet, ere courts began
With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, etc., etc.

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them.
When, safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew
That Treason durst not enter.
Oh, for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!

:duel:


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Chancellor
post Jan 12 2008, 05:06 PM
Post #11


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Alone in Crowds to Wander On
Thomas Moore

Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved
Shed round us once, where'er we roved --
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've loved, and loved to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.

Though fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own,
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice -- where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no -- her spell in vain --
As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.


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vesperala
post Jan 23 2008, 10:19 PM
Post #12


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Alone

-Edgar Allan Poe
(1875)


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were -- I have not seen
As others saw -- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring --

From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow -- I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone --
And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone --

Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn
Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still --

From the torrent, or the fountain --
From the red cliff of the mountain --
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold --

From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by --
From the thunder, and the storm --
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view --


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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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Orpheus
post Jan 23 2008, 11:14 PM
Post #13


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Loves nothing

But a dream about beauty

That leaves behind

Mere heavy waves of sadness...


Suffering carves pearls

In your wandering soul

That youll carry over

The secret boundary.


The waves have receded

In the spring still untouched

And you are left behind

Turned into love...

I am my heart
I came into your heart.

Ive been a long time in your heart.

Ive never been elsewhere

But in your heart.


You came into my heart.

Youve been a long time in my heart.

Youve never been elsewhere

But in my heart.


You are my Heart.


I am.
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vesperala
post Jan 23 2008, 11:27 PM
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QUOTE (Black Hawk @ Jan 23 2008, 11:14 PM) *
Loves nothing

....


I am.

who is the author?


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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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Orpheus
post Jan 24 2008, 09:31 AM
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QUOTE (vesperala @ Jan 23 2008, 11:27 PM) *
who is the author?


Author is: stranger
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Chancellor
post Jan 27 2008, 01:03 AM
Post #16


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Auguries of Innocence
William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

A robin red breast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A Horse misus'd upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.

The game cock clip'd and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.

A truth that's told with bad intent.
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;

And when this we rightly know
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;

Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands

Tools were made, and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow and roar
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd, with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the labrer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licenc'd, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.

Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears and god is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.


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Floarea Soarelui
post Jan 27 2008, 07:45 PM
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Mihai Eminescu - And If...

And if the branches tap my pane
And the poplars whisper nightly,
It is to make me dream again
I hold you to me tightly.

And if the stars shine on the pond
And light its sombre shoal,
It is to quench my mind's despond
And flood with peace my soul.

And if the clouds their tresses part
And does the moon outblaze,
It is but to remind my heart
I long for you always.


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Chancellor
post Jan 28 2008, 01:17 AM
Post #18


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That's beautiful emo-yes.gif


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vesperala
post Mar 13 2008, 05:29 PM
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QUOTE (Chancellor @ Jan 28 2008, 01:17 AM) *
That's beautiful emo-yes.gif

smile.gif

If I could catch a rainbow
I would do it just for you.
And share with you it's beauty
On the days you're feeling blue.
If I could build a mountain
You could call your very own.
A place to find serenity
A place to be alone.
If I could take your troubles
I would toss them in the sea.
But all these things I'm finding
are impossible for me,
I cannot build a mountain
Or catch a rainbow fair
But let me be...what I know best,
a friend that's always there.

by Sandra Lewis Pringle


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O raclă mare-i lumea. Stelele-s cuie/Bătute-n ea şi soarele-i fereasta/La temniţa vieţii
Mihai Eminescu

Stelele-n cer, deasupra mărilor, ard depărtărilor, până ce pier...

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florin7franky
post Mar 13 2008, 11:10 PM
Post #20


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The poet

George Cosbuc


A soul in the soul of my people am I
And sing of its sorrows and joys,
For mine are your wounds and I cry
Whenever you do, drinking dry
That chalice of poison that's meant for Fate's toys.
Whatever your pathway, together we'll ail,
We'll bear the same cross and we'll feel the same nail;
Your banner and creed will be mine;
The shrine of my hopes I shan't fail
To set by the side your shrine.

A heart of my people's great heart;
I sing of its love and its hate;
The part that you play is the fire's; my part
Is that of the wind; you're mate
In all that's decided by Fate.
You're the source and the aim of whatever I sing
And if at times say a thing
That's not in your Scriptures, you can,
Most holy celestial King,
Lock up with a lightning the mouth of a man.

Some people hold dear and supreme
What's vain in the other men's eye;
But he who can scan both the earth and the sky
And set up a bridge 'tween the low and the high,
Will always distinguish "to be" from "to seem".
My heart is all yours and your heart is in me
Whatever your place on the chart
Of forth-coming ages, whatever they decree,
For you, mine own people, of your soul I will be
For ever and ever a part.


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