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98 Ulysses coming home again to shoot With bows and feathered arrows made another, And all was as it should be. I was young.

So I lay dreaming of what things I would, Calm and incorrigibly satisfied With apples and romance and ignorance, And the floating smoke from Archibald's clay pipe. There was a stillness over everything, As if the spirit of heat had laid its hand Upon the world and hushed it; and I felt Within the mightiness of the white sun That smote the land around us and wrought out A fragrance from the trees, a vital warmth And fullness for the time that was to come, And a glory for the world beyond the forest. The present and the future and the past, Isaac and Archibald, the burning bush, The Trojans and the walls of Jericho, Were beautifully fused; and all went well Till Archibald began to fret for Isaac And said it was a master day for sunstroke. That was enough to make a mummy smile, I thought; and I remained hilarious, In face of all precedence and respect, Till Isaac (who had come to us unheard)