TAH

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.