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written by John Masefield
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I have drunken the red wine and flung the dice;
      Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heard
The dear pale lady with the mournful eyes,
      And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird.

With delicate white hands - white hands that I have kist
      (Oh frail white hands!) - she soothed my aching eyes;
And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist,
      Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise.

With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh,
      She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins,
Then passed into the night, and I go seeking her
      Down the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted inns.

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