And quietly betook me from that world
To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled
In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.
Three years I worked, each minute of each hour
Not claimed by acting:—work I may dispense
With talk about, since work in evidence,
Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?
After three years, this way, all unawares,
Our acting ended. She and I, at close
Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows