Vision (Masefield)

I have drunken the red wine and flung the dice; Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heard The dear pale lady with the mournful eyes, And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird.

With delicate white hands - white hands that I have kist (Oh frail white hands!) - she soothed my aching eyes; And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist, Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise.

With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh, She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins, Then passed into the night, and I go seeking her Down the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted inns.