"If our auditory imaginations were sufficiently tuned to plumb and sound a vowel, to unite the most primitive and civilized associations, the word 'undine' would probably suffice as a poem in itself." Seamus Heaney
Monday, February 28, 2011
Excerpt from a poem by Robert Duncan
The great speckled bird who broods over the Nest of souls, and her egg, The dream in which all things are living, I return to, leaving myself.
from 'Tribal Memories: Passages 1' in Bending the Bow
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