We go no more to Calverly's, br For there the lights are few and low; br And who are there to see by them, br Or what they see, we do not know. br Poor strangers of another tongue br May now creep in from anywhere, br And we, forgotten, be no more br Than twilight on a ruin there. br br We two, the remnant. All the rest br Are cold and quiet. You nor I, br Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid, br May ring them back from where they lie. br No fame delays oblivion br For them, but something yet survives: br A record written fair, could we br But read the book of scattered lives. br br There'll be a page for Leffingwell, br And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf; br And who knows what for Clavering, br Who died because he couldn't laugh? br Who knows or cares? No sign is here, br No face, no voice, no memory; br No Lingard with his eerie joy, br No Clavering, no Calverly. br br We cannot have them here with us br To say where their light lives are gone, br Or if they be of other stuff br Than are the moons of Ilion. br So, be their place of one estate br With ashes, echoes, and old wars,— br Or ever we be of the night, br Or we be lost among the stars.