Page:The Dream, John Masefield, 1922.djvu/38

 Yet when I looked, there was the arras only,

The passage stretching on, the pictured faces,

The violin below complaining lonely,

Creeping with sweetness in the mind's sad places,

And all my mind was trembling with the traces

Of long dead things, of beautiful sweet friends

Long since made one with that which never ends.

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