Page:The writings in prose and verse of Rudyard Kipling (IA cu31924057346631).pdf/26



and shivering, how the oozy tide Affrights me, waiting! Yonder boatman there Is dull and moveless as the very stones That fringe the infernal river. Woe is me! All that I had, departed, and this state Of aimless wandering on the farther shore Is scarcely better than the life of forms I see around me. Huge, deformèd toads, Yellow and dripping monsters, loathsome plants Dropping their blotched leaves in the reeking slime. This is the land of Death in very truth. The imprisoned air bears not my trembling voice To shapes, my comrades in the upper life, To those that sate and laughed with me of old, Alas, how altered! Tullius Quæstor there Stands solitary, he that lovèd mirth, And drank the unmixed wine till morning came With me, how often! Is that Poetus, Mine ancient enemy? O Gods! he comes Beating the dead air with his outstretched palms In silent supplication. Now his mouth Is shaping words, and yet there comes no sound; 6