"As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower."

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The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

— Ezra Pound