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"And who art thou that pacest here?"
He answered like a hollow wind,
Not heard by any outer ear,
But in dim chambers of the mind.
"I walk," he said, "in ways of shame,
The comrade of thy wasted fame."
A passion clamoured in my breast,
For mirthless laughter, and I laughed;
In mine the phantom's cold hand pressed
A cup, and in self's spite I quaffed.
It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink:
Death is less bitter than that drink.
"This chalice scarce can fail," said he,
"Till thou and I shall fail from earth;'
And we will walk in company,
And waste the night with shameful mirth.
I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine."
I pledged him in the bitter wine.
"Had'st thou not slept at noon," he said,
"Thou should'st have walked in praise and fame.
Now loathest thou thine heart and head,
And both thine eyes are blind with shame."
His voice was like a hollow wind
In dim death-chambers in the mind.
He turned; he bared a demon face;
He filled the night with ribald song;
For many a league, in evil case,
We danced our leaden feet along.


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