Fifine Answers

Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame,

Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shame

And known the torture of the Skull-place hours

Free and so bound, that mingled with the powers

Of air and sea and light his soul's far reach

Yet strictured did the body-lips beseech

“To drink” “I thirst.” And then the sponge of gall.

Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's call

Doth master and make slaves and yet make free,

Drink all of life and quaffing lustily

Take bitter with the sweet without complain

And sharers in his drink defy the pain

That makes you fearful to unfurl your souls.

We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls

About us we have fear, and then

Having so small a stake grow bold again.

We know not definitely even this

But‘ cause some vague half knowing half doth miss

Our consciousness and leaves us feeling

That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling

From the last carouse, or in what measure

Of so called right or so damned wrong our leisure

Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun,

That, spite your carping, still the thing is done

With some deep sanction, that, we know not how,

Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow

That this not need we know our every thought

Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought

Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit,

Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit

And serve our jape's turn for a night or two.

Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve!

I meet you there myself.