Yes, I still remember The whole thing in a way; Edge and exactitude Depend on the day. Of all that prodigious scene There seems scanty loss, Though mists mainly float and screen Canal, spire and fosse; Though commonly I fail to name That once obvious Hill, And where we went and whence we came To be killed, or kill. Those mists are spiritual And luminous-obscure, Evolved of countless circumstance Of which I am sure; Of which, at the instance Of sound, smell, change and stir, New-old shapes for ever Intensely recur. And some are sparkling, laughing, singing, Young, heroic, mild; And some incurable, twisted, Shrieking, dumb, defiled.
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