III. POSTLUDE

A breath, a glance, a word,— no more, my friend,

This is the sum of what I have to give

Leaving the tale for ever incomplete.

No perfect moment, and no tragic end,

Within your heart those images shall live

And die like footsteps down an empty street.

Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith:

“Spend your souls vigour to the utmost breath

And let the hounds come baying at the death!”