Drinking Wine
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I live here in a village house without all that racket horses and carts stir up, and you wonder how that could ever be. Wherever the mind dwells apart is itself a distant place. Picking chrysanthemums at my east fence, I see South Mountain far off: air lovely at dusk, birds in flight returning home. All this means something, something absolute: whenever I start to explain it, I forget words altogether.
Stevens
