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I feel as though a landmark in my reading life has arrived in the mail: the Collected Poems of Robert Lowell could – I suppose – be seen from a distance given its heft. He dwarfs Elizabeth Bishop’s output (which is not by any means a total victory).

My favourite lines in English literature (this month) come from his ‘Banker’s Daughter’:

And so I press my lover’s palm to mine;
I am his vintage, and his living vine
entangles me, and oozes mortal wine
moment to moment.

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