70

To his Watch_

MORTAL my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art? The telling time our task is; time's some part, Not all, but we were framed to fail and die-- One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby Is comfort's carol of all or woe's worst smart.

Field-flown the departed day no morning brings Saying 'This was yours' with her, but new one, worse. And then that last and shortest . . .