III. May Flies   What may come, if pleasure, unslaked By surfeit, pounds the days staked To my memory like hides dripping on a wall? Glut and sleep? Or intimations of a fall From grace to ordinary, like a mass Said for the future dead? My dark head Wore garlands of grave victory, and dread No part of my hot dance. Chances pass For cool reflection, and the moon, mirror Of true light, too soon, too soon, sliver Thin, its full face hidden from the game, Speaks my name, says to me my name, And I hear nothing, hearing only in the dark The voice of love, the ticking of love's mark.