Where are the gallant men 

That we swam with in our youth? 

Do they needle at the moon? 

Do they sleep in God's truth?

 May what little bread they find 

Rest on sills above their reach



May a pang turn in their guts

And a pain reel in their hearts



For I had loved them all I could

Prayed no rain should fall on their roofs



If I try that love again

And it's true, truth is untruth

Nature, on its own time

Bore a fissure in the sluice

And so they called for evening, so it descends

Dancing is for fatter men