If ever I am old, and all alone, 
I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; 
For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait 
Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown. 
The devil only knows what I have done,
But here I am, and here are six or eight 
Good friends, who most ingenuously prate 
About my songs to such and such a one. 

But everything is all askew to-night,? 
As if the time were come, or almost come,
For their untenanted mirage of me 
To lose itself and crumble out of sight, 
Like a tall ship that floats above the foam 
A little while, and then breaks utterly.