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Tangling in the tide’s green fall Now fold their wings like bats and disappear Into the attic of the skull." - Plath
And, now and then, fine winds supplied me wings." - Arthur Rimbaud
haunting the groves, nereids who dwell in wet caves, for all the white leaves of olive-branch, and early roses, and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries, which she once brought to your altars, bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia, and Assyrian wine to shatter her fever." - Hilda Doolittle