Page:The Dream, John Masefield, 1922.djvu/42

 And now, the walls were harvest fields whose corn

Trembled beneath the wrinkling wind in waves

All golden ripe and ready to be shorn

By sickling sunburnt reapers singing staves,

And now, the walls were dark with wandering caves

That sometimes glowed with fire and sometimes burned

Where men on anvils fiery secrets learned.

[36]