They hail me as one living,



But don't they know



That I have died of late years,



Untombed although?







I am but a shape that stands here,



A pulseless mould,



A pale past picture, screening



Ashes gone cold.







Not at a minute's warning,



Not in a loud hour,



For me ceased Time's enchantments



In hall and bower.







There was no tragic transit,



No catch of breath,



When silent seasons inched me



On to this death ....







— A Troubadour-youth I rambled



With Life for lyre,



The beats of being raging



In me like fire.







But when I practised eyeing



The goal of men,



It iced me, and I perished



A little then.







When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,



Through the Last Door,



And left me standing bleakly,



I died yet more;







And when my Love's heart kindled



In hate of me,



Wherefore I knew not, died I



One more degree.







And if when I died fully



I cannot say,



And changed into the corpse-thing



I am to-day,







Yet is it that, though whiling



The time somehow



In walking, talking, smiling,



I live not now.









