  Among the goodly folk whose name I bear, Men of the plough, the priesthood, and the mill, Whose whispered wisdom follows where I fare, With ghostly promptings that must haunt me still,— What place was there for you, whose different fame Delighted, once, the Don Juans of the town? The family annals have forgot your name, And time at last has hushed your gay renown. But often in the chamber of my mind, The righteous rise and leave, their counsels done, And there is counsel of another kind,— The room turns tavern, and there enters one I pledge as kinsman in a reeling toast, Still unregenerate and delightful ghost. |
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