They've a way of whispering to me — fellow-wight who yet abide -
In the muted, measured note
Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide:
“We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to antidote,
Unsuccesses to success,
- Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of thought.
“No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial stress;
Chill detraction stirs no sigh;
Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we possess.”
“Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that I set such vallie by.”
“You may hold the manse in fee,
You may wed my spouse, my children's memory of me may decry.”
“Curious not the least are we if our intents you make or mar,
If you quire to our old tune,
If the City stage still passes, if the weirs still roar afar.”
- Thus, with very gods’ composure, freed those crosses late and soon
Which, in life, the Trine allow
( Why, none witteth ), and ignoring all that haps beneath the moon,
William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough,
Robert's kin, and John's, and Ned's,
And the Squire, and Lady Susan, murmur mildly to me now.