Old ghosts whose day was done ere mine began, If earth be seen from your conjectured heaven, Ye know that History is half-dream-ay even The man's life in the letters of the man. There lies the letter, but it is not he As he retires into himself and is: Sender and sent-to go to make up this, Their offspring of this union. And on me Frown not, old ghosts, if I be one of those Who make you utter things you did not say, And mould you all awry and mar your worth; For whatsoever knows us truly, knows That none can truly write his single day, And none can write it for him upon earth.