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.
“April snow. / God is waiting in the garden. / Slow as a blush,
snow shifts and settles on God. / On God’s bouquet. / The trees are white nerve nets.”
Anne Carson | “God’s Bouquet Of Undying Love”
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