John Le Gay Brereton
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The Robe Of Grass
HERE lies the woven garb he wore
Of grass he gathered by the shore
Whereon the phantom waves still fret and foam
And sigh along the visionary sand.
‘Where is he now?’ you cry; ‘What desolate land
Gleams round him in dull mockery of home?’
You knew him by the robe he cast
About him, grey and worn at last.