_EPILOGUE_ _These_, _to you now_, _O_, _more than ever now_— _Now that the Ancient Enemy_ _Has passed_, _and we_, _we two that are one_, _have seen_ _A piece of perfect Life_ _Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death_ _The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled_ _In pity and pride_, _Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil_ _From those home-kingdoms he left desolate_! _Poor windlestraws_ _On the great_, _sullen_, _roaring pool of Time_ _And Chance and Change_, _I know_! _But they are yours_, _as I am_, _till we attain_ _That end for which me make_, _we two that are one_: _A little_, _exquisite Ghost_ _Between us_, _smiling with the serenest eyes_ _Seen in this world_, _and calling_, _calling still_ _In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties_ _Of sweetness_, _thrilling back across the grave_, _Break the poor heart to hear_:— ‘Come, Dadsie, come! Mama, how long—how long!’ _July_ 1897.