Geoffrey Hill quotes

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Platonic England, house of solitudes,
rests in its laurels and its injured stone,
Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods
with smoky wings, entangles them.
By blood we live, the hot, the cold,
To ravage and redeem the world:
There is no bloodless myth will hold.
The soft-voiced owl, the ferret's smile,
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
In the schoolyard,in the cloakrooms, the children boasted their
scars of dried snot;wrists and knees garnished with impetigo.
As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
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