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.
“Desire may be dead and still a man can be a meeting place for sun and rain, wonder outwaiting pain as in a wintry tree.”
D. H. Lawrence
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