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Each of us like you has died once, has passed through drift of wood-leaves, cracked and bent and tortured and unbent in the winter-frost, the burnt into gold points, lighted afresh, crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf, gold turned and re-welded in the sun; each of us like you has died once, each of us has crossed an old wood-path and found the winter-leaves so golden in the sun-fire that even the live wood-flowers were dark.
Not the gold on the temple-front where you stand is as gold as this, not the gold that fastens your sandals, nor thee gold reft through your chiselled locks, is as gold as this last year's leaf, not all the gold hammered and wrought and beaten on your lover's face.
brow and bare breast is as golden as this: each of us like you has died once, each of us like you stands apart, like you fit to be worshipped.

Poem by Hilda Doolittle
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