She did not move. And about her the entire house, the street, seemed to encourage her, seemed to consider this motionlessness natural.
“The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
There was no sound amid the sacred boughs.
Nor any mournful music in her streams:
Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
Only I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and weep until she come again.”
Frederic Manning | “Korè”