Sadly, O sage, thine images are told.
Think we of cornfields, where again there fall
At Memory’s touch, that is so magical,
All the long lights that ever rippled gold
Across their surface, all the manifold
Wavelets of tremulous shadow; and withal
Through doors and windows of a haunted hall
Those buried children of the days of old,
Those evanescent children of dead years,
Clouded or glorious, glide into the room,
Sudden as yellow leaves drop from the tree,
And all the moulder’d imagery reappears,
And all the letter’d lines are fair to see,
And all the legend lives above the tomb?
(Archbishop William Alexander)
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