Closing

While I, 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 Johnson'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 that long while,

Being but a part of ancient ceremony -

Notorious, till all my priceless things

Are but a post the passing dogs defile.