And this went on, with intervals Of labored harmony between Resounding discords, till at last Llewellyn turned--as will be seen. Priscilla, warmer than her name, And shriller than the sound of saws, Pursued Llewellyn once too far, Not knowing quite the man he was. The more she said, the fiercer clung The stinging garment of his wrath; And this was all before the day When Time tossed roses in his path. Before the roses ever came Llewellyn had already risen. The roses may have ruined him, They may have kept him out of prison. And she who brought them, being Fate, Made roses do the work of spears,-- Though many made no more of her Than civet, coral, rouge, and years. You ask us what Llewellyn saw, But why ask what may not be given? To some will come a time when change Itself is beauty, if not heaven. One afternoon Priscilla spoke, And her shrill history was done; At any rate, she never spoke Like that again to anyone. One gold October afternoon Great fury smote the silent air; And then Llewellyn leapt and fled Like one with hornets in his hair. Llewellyn left us, and he said Forever, leaving few to doubt him; And so, through frost and clicking leaves, The Tilbury way went on without him. And slowly, through the Tilbury mist, The stillness of October gold Went out like beauty from a face. Priscilla watched it, and grew old. He fled, still clutching in his flight The roses that had been his fall; The Scarlet One, as you surmise, Fled with him, coral, rouge, and all. Priscilla, waiting, saw the change Of twenty slow October moons; And then she vanished, in her turn To be forgotten, like old tunes. So they were gone--all three of them, I should have said, and said no more, Had not a face once on Broadway Been one that I had seen before. The face and hands and hair were old, But neither time nor penury Could quench within Llewellyn's eyes The shine of his one victory. The roses, faded and gone by, Left ruin where they once had reigned; But on the wreck, as on old shells, The color of the rose remained. His fictive merchandise I bought For him to keep and show again, Then led him slowly from the crush Of his cold-shouldered fellow men. "And so, Llewellyn," I began-- "Not so," he said; "not so, at all: I've tried the world, and found it good, For more than twenty years this fall. "And what the world has left of me Will go now in a little while." And what the world had left of him Was partly an unholy guile.