No matter what we are, or what we sing,

Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.

Strange that I did not know him then,
That friend of mine!
I did not even show him then
One friendly sign;

But cursed him for the ways he had
To make me see
My envy of the praise he had
For praising me.

I would have rid the earth of him
Once, in my pride. . . .
I never knew the worth of him
Until he died.

Slowly I smoke and hug my knee,
The while a witless masquerade
Of things that only children see
Floats in a mist of light and shade :
They pass, a flimsy cavalcade,
And with a weak, remindful glow,
The falling embers break and fade,

As one by one the phantoms go.