Reblogged from Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings:

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John William Waterhouse, The Sorceress

Know if lives in nature's song—
thick on spring's rustle

between every breath that comes
verdant and sublime, there was
an almost,
never rooted,
a moon-rose, eggshell fragile---

but ask, ask, ask, she says--
for dreams,
a dance on a long bee-path,
soft blooms of dusk,
a shadow-fiddle
like a lullaby as night's blanket rests.

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