What is beheld through glass seems glass.The quality of what I amEncases what I am not,Smoothes the strange world.I perceive it slowly,In my time,In my material,As my pride,As my possession:The vision is love.When life crashes like a cracked pane,Still shall I loveEven the strange dead as the living once.Death also sees, though distantly,And I must trust then as nowA prism — of another kind,Through which one may not put one's hands or touch.
-Laura Riding
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