Poems (Henley)/Epilogue
EPILOGUE
These, to you now, O, more than ever now—Now that the Ancient EnemyHas passed, and we, we two that are one, have seenA piece of perfect LifeTurn to so ravishing a shape of DeathThe Arch-Discomforter might well have smiledIn pity and pride,Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoilFrom those home-kingdoms he left desolate!
Poor windlestrawsOn the great, sullen, roaring pool of TimeAnd Chance and Change, I know!But they are yours, as I am, till we attainThat end for which we make, we two that are one:A little, exquisite GhostBetween us, smiling with the serenest eyesSeen in this world, and calling, calling stillIn that clear voice whose infinite subtletiesOf sweetness, thrilling back across the grave,Break the poor heart to hear:—'Come, Dadsie, come!Mama, how long—how long!'July 1897.