And this fresh pageant mildewed history—
Yet they who drink the vintage I will brew
Shall wake, and see a vision, in their wine,
Of Canterbury and our pilgrimage:
These very faces, with the blood in them,
Laughter and love and tang of life in them,
These moving limbs, this rout, this majesty!
For by that resurrection of the Muse,
Shall you, sweet friends, re-met in timeless Spring,
Pace on through time upon eternal lines