Fit to build in like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles.
So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last.
A week before,
Dining with him,—after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,—
Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, headpiece, foot-piece, when they lean
Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between.
As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment
By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went
Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throw
Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let 's venture some good rattling question!" So—