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5 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

So, take a stroll down memory lane to remember all of our past Word of the Year selections.

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Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

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