Where are my long hills? Who took my horse,
And who my apparels of Green?
In that dusky light, why is the house gone?
Why remains only a terrace of moss
And one yew tree, tiered like an urn?
Why on the street only the dusty coach,
Unhandseled, unsewn by the curb,
Its interior webbed over and dim
As in the most twilit of rooms?
And this street, so encountered and ruined?
One Third of a Dream
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