My imagination goes some years backward, and I remember a beautiful young girl singing at the edge of the sea in Normandy words and music of her own composition. She thought herself alone, stood barefooted between sea and sand; sang with lifted head of civilizations that there had come and gone, ending every verse with the cry: Oh Lord, let something remain.
W.B. Yeats
from, Memory and Narrative, James Olney
Ariana's Florilegia 