T.S. Eliot

circe's palace

Around her fountain which flows with the voice of men in pain‚ are flowers that no man knows. Their petals are fanged and red with hideous streak and stain; They sprang from the limbs of the dead. — We shall not come here again. Panthers rise from their lairs in the forest which thickens below, along the garden stairs the sluggish python lies; The peacocks walk, stately and slow, and they look at us with the eyes of men whom we knew long ago.

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