Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/93

 No matter what we are, or what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.

I smoke and hug my knee, The while a witless masquerade Of things that only children see Floats in a mist of light and shade : They pass, a flimsy cavalcade, And with a weak, remindful glow, The falling embers break and fade, As one by one the phantoms go.