[opening his eyes wide and raising himself]
O Boniface, before
I saw you as an angel.
Is that wine
Still on the stony ledge?
[Marcomir brings the wine-bottle]
Now let us drink,
Drink all of us.
[to Boniface] Go to your heathen lands
With that great lay of love.
This is a poet,
And he too has a burthen, but more sad—
Men love so fitfully. I for myself
Drink deep to life here in my prison-cell.
I had a song ... O Marcomir, the words—
Why do you stumble? Once again the cup!
Fellowship, pleasure
These are the treasure—
So I believe, so in the name of Time ...
[He sinks back and dies.]
Printed in England by
The Westminster Press, Harrow Road
London