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In Ipsley Church Lane I More than ever I see through painters' eyes. The white hedge-parsleys pall, the soot is on them. Clogged thorn-blossom sticks, like burnt cauliflower, to the festered hedge-rim. More than I care to think I am as one coarsened by feckless grief. Storm cloud and sun together bring out the yellow of stone. But that's lyricism, as Father Guardini equably names it: autosuggestion, mania, ...