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G U Y O W E N Praise be to Eve Praise be to Eve for season’s gifts, For leaves of blood and sudden drifts Of healing snow: a fortunate fall, Bequeathing us this miracle. The hand that reached the tallest fruit Gathered the winds and scattered sleet, Unholy rime and sullen ice To trumpet the walls of paradise. That ragged core she nibbled on Trembled the garden into stone, And from that dark and fated seed Sprang the willow, mounted the weed, All things proud, strange, perverse All beauty born beneath the curse. The Late 1950s and the 1960s ❚ 5 ...

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