They have mad wars and phantom marriages;

5

 Nor seem to guess

 There are dimensions still,

 Beyond thought’s reach, though not beyond love’s will,

 For soul to fill.

 And some I call my friends, and make believe

 Their spirits grieve,

 Brood, and rejoice with mine;

 I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine

 Over the wine;

 I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands;

 One understands

 Perhaps. How hard he tries

 To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes,

 His best replies!

 I even have my cronies, one or two,

 My cherished few.

 But ah, they do not stay!

 For the sun fades them and they pass away,

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