
What whispers as I stalk the midnight hills? Thickly fell the darkness roundabout; Like pitch it filled the cataracts and rills, And took my vision, so that I may doubt My step, but then as from the earth my shout…
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To be in any form, what is that?–he says, O Dionysos, what is that? The man, he writes In long, sensuous lines a song about himself, As if to praise a god who slips between his thumbs, Makes a circuit…
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