To W. E. Henley

Henley, what mark you in the sunset glare?
The year is dying: is that the crimson splash
Wherewith he seals his testament? the cash,
To some conveying of all things good and fair,
To others unutterable emptiness? the stare
Of folly at a bubble trimmed with trash,
Or at a flame, whose unsubstantial ash
Falls in a gaping darkness and despair?
Friend, scholar loved, look longer: how it glows,
Not glares! God opes a perspective to see
The chambers of the ivory palaces.
And who is that within its encircling rose?
Is it my Love that fondles some one? Yes!
Some one! O, yes! Your darling? Is it she?