Henry in Ireland to Bill underground:

Rest well, who worked so hard, who made a good sound

constantly, for so many years:

your high-jinks delighted the continents & our ears:

you had so many girls your life was a triumph

and you loved your one wife.

At dawn you rose & wrote—the books poured forth—

you delivered infinite babies, in one great birth—

and your generosity

to juniors made you deeply loved, deeply:

if envy was a Henry trademark, he would envy you,

especially the being through.

Too many journeys lie for him ahead,

too many galleys & page-proofs to be read,

he would like to lie down

in your sweet silence, to whom was not denied

the mysterious late excellence which is the crown

of our trials & our last bride.