Where are the gallant men That we swam with in our youth? Do they needle at the moon? Do they sleep in Gods truth? May what little bread they find Rest on sills above their reach May a pang turn in their guts And a pain reel in their hearts For I had loved them all I could Prayed no rain should fall on their roofs If I try that love again And its true, truth is untruth Nature, on its own time Bore a fissure in the sluice And so they called for evening, so it descends Dancing is for fatter men
sluice, fissure, untruth, pang, men