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Christ has been done to death in the cold reaches of northern Europe a thousand thousand times. Suddenly bread and cheese appear on a plate beside a gleaming pewter beaker of beer.
Now tell me that the Holy Ghost does not reside in the play of light on cutlery!
A Woman makes lace, with a moist-eyed spaniel lying at her small shapely feet. Even the maid with the chamber pot is here; the naughty, red-cheeked girl. . . .
And the merchant's wife, still in her yellow dressing gown at noon, dips her quill into India ink with an air of cautious pleasure.
Jane Kenyon
Read poems about / on: girl, woman, red, death, light, women
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