A book large and superficially inexpressive,—like yourself.
It has not, any more than the old ones,
The style of Pater.
But now there are passing before me
Interminable figures in tangled procession—
Proud or cringing, starved with desire or icy,
Hastening toward a dream of triumph or fleeing from a dream of doom,—
Passing—passing—passing
Through a world of shadows,
Through a chaotic and meaningless anarchy,