A SENTENCE BY ROBERT GRAVES

March 26, 2011

Here the mountain, which was shaggy with wild olive and esculent oak, sloped sharply down to the sea, five hundred feet below at that time dappled with small banks of mist, like sheep grazing, as far as the horizon line.

I’ve always preferred my oaks to be esculent, haven’t you? I mean, of course, with marmalade. And yes, THE GOLDEN FLEECE is quite an awfully good book.

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