“Sir, will you let me give you a ride...

“Sir, will you let me give you a ride?

Nox Venit, and the heath is wide.”

- My phaeton-lantern shone on one

Young, fair, even fresh,

But burdened with flesh:

A leathern satchel at his side,

His breathings short, his coat undone.

‘ Twas as if his corpulent figure slopped

With the shake of his walking when he stopped,

And, though the night's pinch grew acute,

He wore but a thin

Wind-thridded suit,

Yet well-shaped shoes for walking in,

Artistic beaver, cane gold-topped.

“Alas, my friend,” he said with a smile,

“I am daily bound to foot ten mile -

Wet, dry, or dark — before I rest.

Six months to live

My doctors give

Me as my prospect here, at best,

Unless I vamp my sturdiest!”

His voice was that of a man refined,

A man, one well could feel, of mind,

Quite winning in its musical ease;

But in mould maligned

By some disease;

And I asked again. But he shook his head;

Then, as if more were due, he said: -

“A student was I — of Schopenhauer,

Kant, Hegel,— and the fountained bower

Of the Muses, too, knew my regard:

But ah — I fear me

The grave gapes near me!...

Would I could this gross sheath discard,

And rise an ethereal shape, unmarred!”

How I remember him!— his short breath,

His aspect, marked for early death,

As he dropped into the night for ever;

One caught in his prime

Of high endeavour;

From all philosophies soon to sever

Through an unconscienced trick of Time!