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 likе fire

But when I practised еyeing
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