My best writing seems to have to be forced from me by some other force but that force has to be one whose power I agree to serve.
My best writing seems to have to be forced from me by some other force but that force has to be one whose power I agree to serve.
“Dwell, awful Silence, on the shady hills
Among the bleating flocks, and purling rills,
When Pan the reed doth to his lips apply,
Inspiring it with sacred harmony.
Hydriads, and Hamadryads at that sound
In a well order’d measure beat the ground.”
Thomas Stanley | “Pan Piping,” after the Greek of Plato