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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408986" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Victor Daley</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought that silence would be best,<br>But I a call have heard,<br>And, Victor, after all the rest,<br>I well might say a word:<br>The day and work is nearly done,<br>And ours the victory,<br>And we are resting, one by one,<br>In graveyards by the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But then you talked of other nights,<br>When, gay from dusk to dawn,<br>You wasted hours with other lights<br>That went where you have gone.<br>You spoke not of the fair and “fast”,<br>But of the pure and true—<br>“Sweet ugly women of the past”<br>Who stood so well by you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You made a jest on that last night,<br>I met it with a laugh:<br>You wondered which of us should write<br>The other’s epitaph.<br>We filled the glasses to the brim—<br>“The land’s own wine” you know—<br>And solemnly we drank to him<br>Who should be first to go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No ribald jest; we were but two—<br>The royst’ring days were past—<br>And in our heart of hearts we knew,<br>That one was going fast.<br>We both knew who should win the race—<br>Were rest or fame the prize—<br>As with a quaint smile on your face<br>You looked into my eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You talked about old struggles brave,<br>But in a saddened tone—<br>The swindles editors forgave<br>For laughter’s sake alone.<br>You talked of humorous distress,<br>And bailiffs that you knew,<br>But with a touch of bitterness<br>I’d never seen in you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No need for tears or quick-caught breath—<br>You sleep not in the sand—<br>No need for ranting song of death,<br>With the death drink in our hand.<br>No need for vain invective hurled<br>At “cruel destiny”,<br>Though you seem dead to all the world<br>You are not dead to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see you walk into the room—<br>We aye remember how—<br>And, looking back into the gloom,<br>You’ll smile about it now.<br>’Twas Victor’s entry, solemn style—<br>With verse or paragraph:<br>Though we so often saw your smile<br>How many heard you laugh?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They dare to write about the man<br>That they have never seen:<br>The blustering false Bohemian<br>That you have never been;<br>Some with the false note in their voice,<br>And with the false tear shed,<br>Who in their secret heart rejoice<br>For one more rival—dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They miss the poems, real and true,<br>Where your heart’s blood was shed.<br>And rave of reckless things that you<br>Threw out for bitter bread.<br>They “weep” and “worship” while you “rest”,<br>They drivel and they dote—<br>But, Victor, we remember best<br>The things we never wrote.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The things that lie between us two,<br>The things I’ll never tell.<br>A fool, I stripped my soul, but you—<br>You wore your mask too well<br>(How strangely human all men be,<br>Though each one plays a part).<br>You only dropped it once for me,<br>But then I saw your heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A souls’-match, such as one might strike<br>With or without intent<br>(How strangely all men are alike—<br>With masks so different).<br>No need to drop the mask again,<br>On that last night, I know—<br>It chanced when we were sober men,<br>Some seven years ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They slander you, fresh in the sand,<br>They slander me alive;<br>But, when their foul souls flee the land,<br>Our spirits shall arrive.<br>In slime and envy let them rave,<br>And let the worst be said:<br>“A drunkard at a drunkard’s grave,”<br>“A brilliant drunkard dead.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Because we would not crawl to them,<br>Their hands we would not shake,<br>Because their greed we would condemn,<br>Their bribes we would not take:<br>Because unto the fair and true<br>Our hearts and songs we gave—<br>But I forgot them when I threw<br>My white flower on your grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So let us turn, and with a smile<br>Let those poor creatures pass<br>While we, the few who wait awhile,<br>Drink to an empty glass.<br>We’ll live as in the days gone by,<br>To no god shall we bow—<br>Though, Victor, there are times when I<br>Feel jealous of you now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I’ll have done with solemn songs,<br>Save for my country’s sake;<br>It is not meet, for all the wrongs,<br>That any heart should break.<br>So many need to weep and smile,<br>Though all the rest should frown,<br>That I’d take your burden up awhile<br>Where you have laid it down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408986" data-title="To Victor Daley de Henry Lawson" data-description="I thought that silence would be best,
But I a call have heard,
And, Victor, after all the rest,
I well might say a word:
The day and work is nearly done,
And ours the victory,
And we are resting, one by one,
In graveyards by the sea.

But then you..."></div>
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