Epilogue by George William Russell
WELL, when all is said and done
Best within my narrow way,
May some angel of the sun
Muse memorial oâ€™er my clay:
â€œHere was beauty all betrayed
From the freedom of her state;
From her human uses stayed
On an idle rhyme to wait.
â€œAh, what deep despair might move
If the beauty lit a smile,
Or the heart was warm with love
That was pondering the while.
â€œHe has built his monument
With the winds of time at strife,
Who could have before he went
Written on the book of life.
â€œTo the stars from which he came
Empty handed, he goes home;
He who might have wrought in flame
Only traced upon the foam.â€