Here in my study, in its listlessness

of Vacancy, some old Victorian house,

air-tight and sheeted for old summers,

far from the hornet yatter of the bond — — —

is loneliness, a thin smoke thread of vital

air. What can I catch you now on?

Doom was woven in your nerves, your shirt,

woven in the great clan; they too were loyal,

you too were more than loyal to them ... to death.

For them, like a prince, you daily left your tower

to walk through dirt in your best cloth. Here now, 

alone, in my Plutarchan bubble, I miss 

you, you out of Plutarch, made by hand — —

forever approaching our maturity.