But those old forests are all gone. We will never know them as they were. We have driven them beyond the reach of our minds, only a vague hint of their presence returning to haunt us, as though in dreams – a fugitive rumor of the nobility and beauty and abundance of the squandered maidenhood of our world – so that, do what we will, we will never quite be satisfied ever again to be here. The country, as we have made it by the pretense that we can do without it as soon as we have completed its metamorphosis into cash, no longer holds even the possibility of such forests, for the topsoil that
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