Pale satellite, old mistress of our fires, Who hast seen so much and been so much to men, Symbol and goal of all our wild desires, Not any voice will cry upon thee then; Dreamer and dream, they will have all gone over, The sick of heart, the singer and the lover, An end there will have been to all their lust, Their sorrow, and the sighing of their lyres; O all this Life that stained Earth's patient crust, Time's dying breath will have blown away like dust. 29 Gone from thine eye that brief confusèd stir, The rumours and the marching and the strife; Earth will be still, and all the face of her Swept of the last remains of moving life; The last of all men's monuments that defied them, Like those his valiant gestures that denied them, Into the waiting elements will fade, And thou wilt see thy fellow traveller, A forlorn round of rocky contours made, A glimmering disk of empty light and shade, 30 Ah, depth too deep for thought therein to cast; The old, the cold companions, you will go, Obeying still some long-forgotten past, And all our pitiful history none will know; Still shining, Moon, still peaceful, wilt thou wander, But on that greater ball no heart will ponder The thought that rose and nightingale are gone, And all sweet things but thou; and only vast Ridges of rock remain, and stars and sun; O Moon, thou wilt be lovely alone for none. 31 And so, pale wanderer, so thou leavest me, Passing beyond imagination's range, Away into the void where waits for thee Thy inconceivable destiny of change; And after all the memories I have striven To paint, this picture that thyself hast given Lives, and I watch, to all those others blind, Thy form, gliding into eternity, Fading, an unconjectured fate to find, The last, most wonderful image of the mind. 32 Moon, I have finished, I have made thy song, I have paid my due and done my worship, Moon; Yet, though I truly serve and labour long, Thou givest not, nor do I ask, one boon; That peace which clings around thee where thou goest, Which many seek from thee and thou bestowest, Did never this most faithful heart invest; Even now thou shinest clear and calm and strong, And I, and I, the heart within my breast, Troubled with beauty, Moon, and never at rest. J. C. SQUIRE MISADVENTURES By L. PEARSALL SMITH _At Solemn Music_ I sat there, hating the exuberance of her bust and her high-coloured wig. And how could I listen to the music in the close proximity of those loud stockings?