EPILOGUE FOR A MASQUE

By John Drinkwater

A little time they lived again, and lo!

Back to the quiet night the shadows go,

And the great folds of silence once again

Are over fools and kings and fighting-men.

A little while they went with stumbling feet,

With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,

With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,

And now their dust is on a thousand hills.

We dream of them, as men unborn shall dream

Of us, who strive a little with the stream

Before we too go out beyond the day,

And are as much a memory as they.

And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thing

Of any fear, nor terrible his wing.

We too shall be a tale on earth, and time

Shall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.