Dyspeptic Carlyle, suffering from his food,
Is in a brittle and sardonic mood;
Poor Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous voice cries out
His exultation, bitterness and doubt
Johnson and Boswell yonder sip their tea,
Discoursing in the closest intimacy . . .
The hour grows late, the good nights must be said
To all my guests, the living and the dead.
I loathe to leave the group—I quit my chair—
I tiptoe from the room and climb the stair,
Trusting them to dim the fire, the light,
And calling back to them a soft “Good night.”
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