cluck quotes

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All praise of the hawk on fire in hawk-eyed dusk be sung,
When his viperish fuse hangs looped with flames under the brand
...
Dylan Thomas
hawks
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Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh
upon the masts and spars, ...
Walt Whitman
battles | death
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All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
James Wright
love | families
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