And yet they were not jealous, one of the other. When the gold has peeled from the man on the gilded horse, Riding Fifth Avenue, and the palm-girl’s blind; When the big round tomb gapes empty under the sky, Vacant with summer air, when it’s all forgotten, When nobody reads the books, when the flags are moth-dust, Write up that. You won’t have to write it so often. It will do as well as the railway-station tombs.