Here is no peace, although the air has fainted,
     And footfalls die and are buried in deep grass,
And reverential trees are softly painted
     Like saints upon an oriel of glass.

The pattern of the atmosphere is spherical,
     A bubble in the silence of the sun,
Blown thinner by the very breath of miracle
     Around a core of loud confusion.

Here is no virtue; here is nothing blessèd
     Save this foredoomed suspension of the end;
Faith is the blossom, but the fruit is cursèd;
     Go hence, for it is useless to pretend.