| While I, from that reed-throated whisperer |
| Who comes at need, although not now as once |
| A clear articulation
in the air, |
| But inwardly, surmise companions |
| Beyond the fling of the dull ass’s hoof, |
| —Ben Jonson’s
phrase—and find when June is come |
| At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof |
| A sterner conscience and
a friendlier home, |
| I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, |
| Those undreamt accidents that have made
me |
| —Seeing that Fame has perished this long while, |
| Being but a part of ancient ceremony— |
| Notorious,
till all my priceless things |
| Are but a post the passing dogs defile. |