To Victor Daley

I thought that silence would be best,
 * But I a call have heard,

And, Victor, after all the rest,
 * I well might say a word:

The day and work is nearly done.
 * And ours the victory,

And we are resting, one by one,
 * In graveyards by the sea.

You made a jest on that last night,
 * I met it with a laugh:

You wondered which of us should write
 * The other’s epitaph.

We filled the glasses to the brim—
 * "The land’s own wine" you know—

And solemnly we drank to him
 * Who should be first to go.

No ribald jest; we were but two—
 * The royst'ring days were past—

And in our heart of hearts we knew,
 * That one was going fast.

We both knew who should win the race—
 * Were rest or fame the prize—

As with a quaint smile on your face
 * You looked into my eyes.

But then you talked of other nights,
 * When, gay from dusk to dawn,

You wasted hours with other lights
 * That went where you have gone.

You spoke not of the fair and "fast,"
 * But of the pure and true—

"Sweet ugly women of the past"
 * Who stood so well by you.

You talked about old struggles brave,
 * But in a saddened tone—

The swindles editors forgave
 * For laughter's sake alone.

You talked of humorous distress,
 * And bailiffs that you knew,

But with a touch of bitterness
 * I'd never seen in you.

No need for tears or quick-caught breath—
 * You sleep not in the sand—

No need for ranting song of death,
 * With the death drink in our hand.

No need for vain invective hurled
 * At "cruel destiny,"

Though you seem dead to all the world
 * You are not dead to me.

I see you walk into the room
 * We aye remember how—

And, looking back into the gloom,
 * You'll smile about it now.

'Twas Victor's entry, solemn style—
 * With verse or paragraph:

Though we so often saw your smile
 * How many heard you laugh?

They dare to write about the man
 * That they have never seen:

The blustering false Bohemian
 * That you have never been;

Some with the false note in their voice,
 * And with the false tear shed,

Who in their secret heart rejoice
 * For one more rival—dead.

They miss the poems, real and true,
 * Where your heart's blood was shed,

And rave of reckless things that you
 * Threw out for bitter bread.

They "weep" and "worship" while you "rest,"
 * They drivel and they dote—

But, Victor, we remember best
 * The things we never wrote.

The things that lie between us two,
 * The things I'll never tell.

A fool, I stripped my soul, but you—
 * You wore your mask too Well

(How strangely human all men be,
 * Though each one plays a part).

You only dropped it once for me,
 * But then I saw your heart.

A souls'-match, such as one might strike
 * With or without intent

(How strangely all men are alike—
 * With masks so different).

No need to drop the mask again,
 * On that last night, I know—

It chanced when we were sober men,
 * Some seven years age.

They slander you, fresh in the sand,
 * They slander me alive;

But, when their foul souls flee the land,
 * Our spirits shall arrive.

In slime and envy let them rave,
 * And let the worst be said:

"A drunkard at a drunkard's grave,"
 * "A brilliant drunkard dead."

Because we would not crawl to them,
 * Their bands we would not shake,

Because their greed we would condemn,
 * Their bribes we would not take:

Because unto the fair aiid true
 * Our hearts and songs we gave—

But I forgot them when I threw
 * My white flower on your grave.

So let us turn, and with a smile
 * Let these poor creatures pass

While we, the few who wait awhile,
 * Drink to an empty glass.

We’ll live as in the days gone by,
 * To no god shall we bow—

Though, Victor, there are times when I
 * Feel jealous of you now.

But I'll have done with solemn songs,
 * Save for my country’s sake;

It is not meet, for all the wrongs,
 * That any heart should break.

So many heed to weep and smile,
 * Though all the rest should frown,

That I'd take your burden up awhile
 * Where you have laid it down.