| |
| WE go no more to Calverly’s, | |
| For there the lights are few and low; | |
| And who are there to see by them, | |
| Or what they see, we do not know. | |
| Poor strangers of another tongue | 5 |
| May now creep in from anywhere, | |
| And we, forgotten, be no more | |
| Than twilight on a ruin there. | |
| |
| We two, the remnant. All the rest | |
| Are cold and quiet. You nor I, | 10 |
| Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid, | |
| May ring them back from where they lie. | |
| No fame delays oblivion | |
| For them, but something yet survives: | |
| A record written fair, could we | 15 |
| But read the book of scattered lives. | |
| |
| There’ll be a page for Leffingwell, | |
| And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf; | |
| And who knows what for Clavering, | |
| Who died because he could n’t laugh? | 20 |
| Who knows or cares? No sign is here, | |
| No face, no voice, no memory; | |
| No Lingard with his eerie joy, | |
| No Clavering, no Calverly. | |
| |
| We cannot have them here with us | 25 |
| To say where their light lives are gone, | |
| Or if they be of other stuff | |
| Than are the moons of Ilion. | |
| So, be their place of one estate | |
| With ashes, echoes, and old wars,— | 30 |
| Or ever we be of the night, | |
| Or we be lost among the stars. | |
| |
