"Children picking up our bones / Will never know that these were once / As quick as foxes on the hill; // And that in autumn, when the grapes / Made sharp air sharper by their smell / These had a being, breathing frost; // And least will guess that with our bones / We left much more, left what still is / The look of things, left what we felt // At what we saw." - Wallace Stevens
Saturday, September 18, 2010
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