„And the lost heart stiffens and rejoicesIn the lost lilac and the lost sea voicesAnd the weak spirit quickens to rebelFor the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smellQuickens to recoverThe cry of quail and the whirling ploverAnd the blind eye createsThe empty forms between the ivory gatesAnd smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earthThis is the time of tension between dying and birthThe place of solitude where three dreams crossBetween blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift awayLet the other yew be shaken and reply.“

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