Memory and Narrative

 

 

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

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