Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/244

 , who wrote the songs, Is going down where he belongs. O you unhappy ones, beware: Euty chides will soon be there! For he is coming with twelve lyres, And with more than twice twelve quires Of the stuff that he has done In the world from which he's gone. Ah, now must you know death indeed, For he is coming with all speed; And with Eutychides in Hell, Where's a poor tortured soul to dwell?

So now the very bones of you are gone Where they were dust and ashes long ago; And there was the last ribbon you tied on To bind your hair, and that is dust also; And somewhere there is dust that was of old A soft and scented garment that you wore The same that once till dawn did closely fold You in with fair Charaxus, fair no more. But Sappho, and the white leaves of her song, Will make your name a word for all to learn, And all to love thereafter, even while