In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces,

of liberations, and beloved faces,

such as now ere dawn he sings.

It would not be easy, accustomed to these things,

to give up the old world, but he could try;

let it all rest, have a good cry.

Let Randall rest, whom your self-torturing

cannot restore one instant’s good to, rest:

he’s left us now.

The panic died and in the panic’s dying

so did my old friend. I am headed west

also, also, somehow.

In the chambers of the end we’ll meet again

I will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycat

and all will be as before

whenas we sought, among the beloved faces,

eminence and were dissatisfied with that

and needed more.