The Show
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y soul looked down from a vague height with Death,As unremembering how I rose or why,And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques. Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugsOf ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
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