Canto LXIX
Sleep, kinsman thou to death and tranceAnd madness, thou hast forged at lastA night-long Present of the PastIn which we went through summer France.
Hadst thou such credit with the soul?So bring an opiate treble-strong,Drug down the blindfold sense of wrongThat thus my pleasure might be whole;
While now we talk as once we talk’dOf men and minds, the dust of change,The days that grow to something strange,In walking as of old we walk’d
Beside the river’s wooded reach,The fortress, and the mountain ridge,The cataract flashing from the bridge,The breaker breaking on the beach.