ON THE LOWER RIVER

Oh, when the very last is played Of games that we have lost and won, And out of reach of wind and sun You are a shade; and I a shade, We’ll not be sociable, nor mix With all those far heroic souls, But slip away to where there rolls The quiet current of the Styx. Charon will stand aside for us (Fingering a coin, all amaze), And you, whom every dog obeys, Will swiftly deal with Cerberus, Who, rearing an abysmal throat In bull-dog smile serene and bland, With all three tongues will lick your hand And curl round meekly in the boat. So, moving smoothly from the side, You with the oars and I the lines, Over the tide where no sun shines That immemorial barque shall glide, Sheer through the weeds and sedges dank, Disturbing ghostly rats at play, And veering, in a well-known way From one bank to the other bank.... And when the backwater we pass Where Lethe flows but makes no sound, We will shoot on, nor turn us round At those faint voices from the grass; “Turn. Here is room for millions yet, And here the cure for every ill....” Be still, most piteous shades, be still. We would remember, not forget. And when indignant ghosts who wait For Charon’s boat across the stream, Shatter with shouts his pipe-filled dream, Demanding why the —— he’s late— He’ll call across the waters black, “Sorry, sir! They was lookin’ so Happy, I had to let them go— And Heaven knows when they’ll be back!...”