Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/51

 But his—howbeit fame will yet atone For all defect, and sheave the mystery: The follies and the slaughters I have done Are mine alone, And so far History. So be the tale again retold And leaf by clinging leaf unrolled Where I have written in the dawn, With ink that fades anon, Like Cæsar's, and the way be as of old.

Ho, is it you? I thought you were a ghost. Is it time for you to poison me again? Well, here's our friend the rain,— Mironton, mironton, mirontaine. . . Man, I could murder you almost, You with your pills and toast.