So few lives divide us; a hundred years
Carry three lives, and when the party's over,
The century drained dry, it yet appears
For patient spade suddenly to uncover,
Frail, and a little chipped, the perfume gone
Of the dead wine. But in the bottle yet
We see the vanished ruby that glowed and shone
During those faded years when the wine was set
In those three glasses. Thirty men at most
Fill out a thousand years, each with his glass,
Laughing at table, no unbodied ghost
But a friend speaking, though the hours pass
So swiftly from the bottle to the tomb;
Their faces shine within my shadowed room.

So few lives.