III
And in the main of living we were glad
That we had left the highway and had grown
To wear our tolerance as a silken gown
And smile at those who went in armour clad;
And old age came upon us, grey and sad,
Stealthy and slow, and passed and passed again
The onward faces of swift journeying men,
Keen with the life of some large Iliad.
Now—for our heads are stricken, our lives are
As flowers sodden in the winter rain—
We, who alive are dead—and whether far
Beyond the snows are blissful births of pain,
Or Rome, or Caesar, we know not—we say,
"There is one way of life, the Roman Way."