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The nymph steals the farm-son (Sonnet) by <~>

Before I captured you, you sought meat and bread and peace. My turnings bade you cease seeking solitude that old life brought. I swept the earth stippling stubble in grooves and chains of dance; moved your heart to gambol, stole you from your ramble, melted you, stubborn man. You spied my moves and judged my worth, left behind hoe and plow and dwell with me, now.

zodiac 19-Oct-05/10:32 AM
I love "turn wooden on the lathe of fact", the best image on poemranker in months and the lynchpin, I think, of this poem.

In the original you turned wooden, right? I think that would be better. The rest loses me. I don't know what distinction you're making between November and December (or heart and breast), and can't feel the metaphor of ghosts (which are essentially metaphors, no?) And are you lathing things into firewood? How odd.




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