All that they were, dead totally. What fool still
Knows their extinguished songs? They had their fill
Of average joys and sorrows. They learned how
Love wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now?
But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may find
Himself not utterly faded.
Through his blind
Some old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. Sick
Of his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tick
Troubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scans
The opened book on the table. A flame fans,
A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins.
No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and pains
Not suffered wholly for nothing!
(The old man bends
Over the book, makes notes for pious ends,
—Some curious futile work twelve men at most
Will read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost,
Like some more ignorant moth circles the light...
Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’
The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air,
He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chair
Closer against the table. And sitting bowed
Lovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.