The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion oer the dreaming earth.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulld by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baiæs bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the waves intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.