Dwindled and faded quite, perished beyond recall, Nothing is left at last of what one time was all. Coming back like a ghost, staring and lingering on, Never a word it speaks but proves it dead and gone. Duty and work and joy—these things it cannot give; And the Present is life, and life is good to live. Let it lie where it fell, far from the living sun, The Past that, goodly once, is gone and dead and done. XL THE spring, my dear, Is no longer spring. Does the blackbird sing What he sang last year? Are the skies the old Immemorial blue? Or am I, or are you, Grown cold? Though life be change, It is hard to bear When the old sweet air Sounds forced and strange. To be out of tune, Plain You and I . . . It were better to die, And soon! XLVI _To_ R. A. M. S. _The Spirit of Wine_ _Sang in my glass_, _and I listened_ _With love to his odorous music_, _His flushed and magnificent song_. —‘I am health, I am heart, I am life! For I give for the asking The fire of my father, the Sun, And the strength of my mother, the Earth. Inspiration in essence, I am wisdom and wit to the wise, His visible muse to the poet, The soul of desire to the lover, The genius of laughter to all. ‘Come, lean on me, ye that are weary! Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting! Haste, ye that lag by the way! I am Pride, the consoler; Valour and Hope are my henchmen; I am the Angel of Rest. ‘I am life, I am wealth, I am fame: For I captain an army Of shining and generous dreams; And mine, too, all mine, are the keys Of that secret spiritual shrine, Where, his work-a-day soul put by, Shut in with his saint of saints— With his radiant and conquering self— Man worships, and talks, and is glad. ‘Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely, Ye that are paid with disdain, Ye that are chained and would soar! I am beauty and love; I am friendship, the comforter; I am that which forgives and forgets.’— _The Spirit of Wine_ _Sang in my heart_, _and I triumphed_ _In the savour and scent of his music_, _His magnetic and mastering song_. XLII A WINK from Hesper, falling Fast in the wintry sky, Comes through the even blue, Dear, like a word from you . . . Is it good-bye? Across the miles between us I send you sigh for sigh. Good-night, sweet friend, good-night: Till life and all take flight, Never good-bye. XLII FRIENDS . . . old friends . . . One sees how it ends. A woman looks Or a man tells lies, And the pleasant brooks And the quiet skies, Ruined with brawling And caterwauling, Enchant no more As they did before. And so it ends With friends.