And now he does not even see Signs of the nadir roll At night over the ground where he Is buried with the pole. XVIII. The rain, it streams on stone and hillock, The boot clings to the clay. Since all is done that's due and right Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night, For I must turn away. Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal; No league of ours, for sure. Tomorrow I shall miss you less, And ache of heart and heaviness Are things that time should cure. Over the hill the highway marches And what's beyond is wide: Oh soon enough will pine to nought Remembrance and the faithful thought That sits the grave beside. The skies, they are not always raining Nor grey the twelvemonth through; And I shall meet good days and mirth, And range the lovely lands of earth With friends no worse than you. But oh, my man, the house is fallen That none can build again; My man, how full of joy and woe Your mother bore you years ago To-night to lie in the rain. XIX. In midnights of November, When Dead Man's Fair is nigh, And danger in the valley, And anger in the sky, Around the huddling homesteads The leafless timber roars, And the dead call the dying And finger at the doors. Oh, yonder faltering fingers Are hands I used to hold; Their false companion drowses And leaves them in the cold. Oh, to the bed of ocean, To Africk and to Ind, I will arise and follow Along the rainy wind. The night goes out and under With all its train forlorn; Hues in the east assemble And cocks crow up the morn. The living are the living And dead the dead will stay, And I will sort with comrades That face the beam of day. XX. The night is freezing fast, To-morrow comes December; And winterfalls of old Are with me from the past; And chiefly I remember How Dick would hate the cold. Fall, winter, fall; for he, Prompt hand and headpiece clever, Has woven a winter robe, And made of earth and sea His overcoat for ever, And wears the turning globe. XXI. The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn, And up from India glances The silver sail of dawn. The candles burn their sockets, The blinds let through the day, The young man feels his pockets And wonders what's to pay. XXII. The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover's hour, The hour for lies and him.