On climbing, and other things

Recall the Epicoun:
Night , welling up so soon,
Mere sank as in soft snow
At the stiff frozen dawn,
When time had ceased to flow
— the glacier ledge our unmade bed —
I hear you through your yawn:
“Leaping crevasses in the dark,
That’s how to live!” you said.
No room in that to hedge:
A razor’s edge of a remark.

I.A. Richards, from ‘Hope’
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About Lorca Smetana

White doves. Retreats. Insects. Languages. Making.
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