A mythical animal, the vicuña fares well in the volcanic regions of northern Peru. Light thunders down on it, like Milton at his daughters. Hear that? – they are counting under their breath. When you take up your axe, listen. Hoofbeats. Wind.
“If my praise her grace effaces,
Then ’tis not my heart that showeth,
But the skilless tongue that soweth
Words unworthy of her graces.
Tongue, that hath me so betrayed,
Were my heart but here displayed,
Then were sung her fitting praises.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: To Be Sung Beneath a Window”