To have such eyes, such a helmet of bright hair?”
But candidly, he wondered, do I care?
He heard her voice and himself spoke,
But like faint light through a cloud of smoke,
There came, unreal and far away,
Mere sounds utterly empty—like the drone
Of prayers, crambe repetita, prayers and praise,
Long, long ago, in the old School Chapel days;
Senseless, but so intrusive on one’s own
Interior life one couldn’t even think . . .