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(in the house of a suicide)


Prospero dowered his daughter here with this island:

where everything, million-pinned redwood, hummingbird,

malachite holly leaf, sweet honeysuckle,

elbowed and feathery ridges, thistledown

going wherever it wants to go, fog in the vales,

everything presses itself on the sight like a dream,

manifold, bright, just as the vision expected.

The hills of wild rye rise up, like cumulus, golden

over your brow, and below, like a chasm, the long

larch spears reach up to your feet.

But on this island Prospero's daughter died;

by her own hand she canceled these horizons.

Ask her whatever question you will, she burns

out of the blue sky, terrible, mute.


Frederick Turner



From April Wind, 1991.  Reprinted by

permission of University Press of Virginia.


Background by
Purple Woods

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