Visions swirled upon the dark; about him the dim distances leaped into light; the great Abbey was ablaze with candles; through its windows gleamed the sun; a thronging multitude was gathered beneath the drooping banners and the furled flags of forgotten wars; upon the silence pulsed the slow beat of funeral music, as a vast procession passed in insubstantial pageantry behind a flag-draped bier to where the mighty dead of England sleep. Illusion crowded upon the young soldier; blinded him; dazzled him.... Life had been too stabbing to last, poetry too poignant. And now it did not matter; _his_ life, _his_ death, _his_ poetry. “Another race hath been, and other palms are won.” A flag-draped bier! Like great protecting wings about his soul presentiment enfolded him.... Peace comes after war; death after life; and always to the poet, come poetry and beauty. A shining something, like light, was about him, was in his eyes and soul. Unsung songs ... a voiceless poet ... a soldier, an unknown warrior ... _sleeping in Westminster with the mighty dead_! The swirling visions vanished. Illusion fell away. The young soldier sank to his knees; for an instant his head was bowed in prayer ... “thoughts too deep for tears.” The vision he had seen had blinded him, and humbled him and healed. Gradually his eyes re-focused to the dark, but the shining something, like light, remained in his soul. In the stained glass window the colors had blurred together, but still a lantern, in the hand of a figure grown shadowy and dull, retained its fire; the soldier watched it fade. And then he rose and moved away. Beyond a transparent dimming window, he glimpsed a gargoyle vague with snow. The great nave as he traversed it was a well of darkness. Out of the silence came the muffled sound of a padded door. In the vestibule, a ragged newsboy flitted past him like a bat; his face and the papers under his arm made white blots in the gloom. “’Ello! A soldier hin the Habbey!” The boy drew up at his side. “Paper, sir? News from the front?” The soldier looked about him tentatively, as one waking from a dream. In the shadows the newsboy’s face was strangely white, and he had eerie eyes. The man wondered what he was doing in the Abbey. “Hit’s the quiet ’ere hafter the streets,” the boy volunteered, as if in answer to the unspoken thought. His strangely white face and his eyes fascinated the soldier, hypnotized him. “Hit’s quiet ’ere too hafter the guns!” The boy was pirouetting from one foot to another. “Yes,” the soldier said. He wanted to tell the boy to come here often. He wanted to tell the boy about poetry and beauty--the Intimations of Immortality. “Hi come to the big shows they pulls off ’ere, too,” the child said unexpectedly. For an instant his illusion recurred to the soldier; a vast crowd, lights and banners--funeral music, a _flag-draped bier_! “But Hi likes hit better when hit’s dark and quiet--like now!”