And I have no more need

 Of bread, or wine, or creed,

 Bound for the colonies of time

 Beyond the farthest prime.

 Wind of the dead men’s feet,

 Blow through the empty street!

 The last adventurer am I,

 Then, world, good-by!

35 

35

 

In the Wings

 The play is Life; and this round earth,

The

T

 The narrow stage whereon

 We act before an audience

 Of actors dead and gone.

 There is a figure in the wings

 That never goes away,

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