Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Three Resurrections and the Triumph of Maeve
Of fire precipitous, in storms of will, Did through the fibres of my soul vibrate, And shook the Lilies on the Holy Hill.
Down in the deep abyss the deep voice sighed, The pitiless voice that rhythmic tides obey, Did through the inner courts in whispers glide, And thrust my soul forth on her lonely way.
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