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.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/calverly-s/
