Now That My Page Upcloses, Doomed, Maybe, Never To Press Thy Cosy Cushions More, Or Wake Thy Ready Yeas As Heretofore, Or Stir Thy Gentle Vows Of Faith In Me: Knowing Thy Natural Receptivity, I Figure That, As Flambeaux Banish Eve, My Sombre Image, Warped By Insidious Heave Of Those Less Forthright, Must Lose Place In Thee. So Be It. I Have Borne Such. Let Thy Dreams Of Me And Mine Diminish Day By Day, And Yield Their Space To Shine Of Smugger Things; Till I Shape To Thee But In Fitful Gleams, And Then In Far And Feeble Visitings, And Then Surcease. Truth Will Be Truth Alway.