Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By AmbroseBierce

838 T. A. H.

YES, he was that, or that, as you prefer,—

Did so and so, though, faith, it was n’t all;

Lived like a fool, or a philosopher,

And had whatever’s needful to a fall.

As rough inflections on a planet merge

In the true bend of the gigantic sphere,

Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge,

So in the survey of his worth the small

Asperities of spirit disappear,

Lost in the grander curves of character.

He lately was hit hard; none knew but I

The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke,—

Not even herself. He uttered not a cry,

But set his teeth and made a revelry;

Drank like a devil,—staining sometimes red

The goblet ’s edge; diced with his conscience; spread,

Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke

His welcome in a tongue so long forgot

That even his ancient guest remembered not

What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend,

Still conjugating with each failing sense

The verb “to die” in every mood and tense,

Pursued his awful humor to the end.

When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson broke

From his white lips, he smiled and mutely bled,

And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.