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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree

Stories and Visions

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Burbage in winter

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Cool hills, such silent hills, speak softly now,
of rest, and sleep, and slumber under snow;
no struggle for the troubled ones below,
but ends for all that creased the fevered brow.
The snow will understand, and lay your bed,
the better to be rested for the spring,
when wild hill flowers around your feet will cling,
to casually announce that you are dead.
Its voice is but the gentle gasp of breath
that comes when interrupted in full flow,
for we have brought our boots from far below,
and in revenge, it seeks to bring us death.
White is the colour hanging from the hills,
like sheets; and wreaths shall greet some lesser wills.


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