Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, in swarms outrushing from the golden comb. they waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:
... you throb in me, the dead revive. yon mantle clothes us:
... there, past mortal breath, life glistens on the river of death. it folds us, flesh and dust;
... and have we knelt, or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs of radiance, the radiance enrings:
... and this is the soul's haven to have felt.
- George Meredith
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