The black stone church stood nearby, till a saint in public office ordered demolition; nine days tore it to blocks and chips of paint, two more smoothed the earth. Who would wish on enemies unbounded such surfeit of guilt: ruins being ruined, falling, is there nothing in that? Youth may have flown, but will it nest if I can lure it from this air of incompleteness, this fear of having lost my ticket? A fragile bulwark totters: most of the keystones drop--and then the last. The wind goes racing through the joists, an abbot's ghost: everywhere are signs and empty mullioned windows.
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