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