By T. S. Eliot

The ladies who are interested in Assyrian art
Gather in the hall of the British Museum.
The faint perfume of last year’s tailor suits
And the steam from drying rubber overshoes
And the green and purple feathers on their hats
Vanish in the sombre Sunday afternoon

As they fade beyond the Roman statuary
Like amateur comedians across a lawn
Towards the unconscious, the ineffable, the absolute

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