COLLECTED POEMS
No matter what we are, or what we sing,
Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.
AN OLD STORY
Strange that I did not know him then,
That friend of mine!
I did not even show him then
One friendly sign;
But cursed him for the ways he had
To make me see
My envy of the praise he had
For praising me.
I would have rid the earth of him
Once, in my pride. . . .
I never knew the worth of him
Until he died.
BALLADE BY THE FIRE
Slowly I smoke and hug my knee,
The while a witless masquerade
Of things that only children see
Floats in a mist of light and shade :
They pass, a flimsy cavalcade,
And with a weak, remindful glow,
The falling embers break and fade,
As one by one the phantoms go.
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