The poem
While I, that reed-throated whisperer Who comes at need, although not now as once A clear articulation in the air, But inwardly, surmise companions Beyond the fling of the dull ass's hoof - Ben Johnson's phrase - and find when June is come At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof A sterner conscience and a friendlier home, I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me - Seeing that Fame has perished that long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony - Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.