ES, he was that, or that, as you prefer,—Did so and so, though, faith, it was n’t all;
Lived like a fool, or a philosopher,
And had whatever’s needful to a fall.
As rough inflections on a planet merge In the true bend of the gigantic sphere,
Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge,
So in the survey of his worth the
Asperities of spirit disappear,
Lost in the grander curves of character. He lately was hit hard; none knew but
The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke,—Not even herself.
He uttered not a cry,
But set his teeth and made a revelry;
Drank like a devil,—staining sometimes red The goblet ’s edge; diced with his conscience; spread,
Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and
His welcome in a tongue so long
That even his ancient guest remembered
What race had cursed him in it.
Thus my friend, Still conjugating with each failing
The verb “to die” in every mood and tense,
Pursued his awful humor to the end.
When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson
From his white lips, he smiled and mutely bled, And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.
