His story, told as of another man

Who, loving late, loved much and was betrayed.

He spoke unwitting how his passion played

Upon them, how their eyes grew soft or hard

With what he told; yet something of the bard

He seemed, and his the purpose that is art’s,

Whereby men make a vintage of their hearts

And with the wine of beauty deaden pain.

Low-toned, insistent as October rain,

His voice beat on; and now and then would flit