They hail me as one living, br But don't they know br That I have died of late years, br Untombed although? br br I am but a shape that stands here, br A pulseless mould, br A pale past picture, screening br Ashes gone cold. br br Not at a minute's warning, br Not in a loud hour, br For me ceased Time's enchantments br In hall and bower. br br There was no tragic transit, br No catch of breath, br When silent seasons inched me br On to this death ... br br -- A Troubadour-youth I rambled br With Life for lyre, br The beats of being raging br In me like fire. br br But when I practised eyeing br The goal of men, br It iced me, and I perished br A little then. br br When passed my friend, my kinsfolk, br Through the Last Door, br And left me standing bleakly, br I died yet more; br br And when my Love's heart kindled br In hate of me, br Wherefore I knew not, died I br One more degree. br br And if when I died fully br I cannot say, br And changed into the corpse-thing br I am to-day, br br Yet is it that, though whiling br The time somehow br In walking, talking, smiling, br I live not now.