"Golden lads and lasses must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust."
--SHAKESPEARE.
So young, but already the splendor Of genius robed him about--Already the dangerous, tender Regard of the gods marked him out--(On whom the burden and duty They bind, at his earliest breath, Of showing their own grave beauty, They love and they crown with death.)
We were of one blood, but the olden Rapt poets spake out in his tone;
We were of one blood, but the golden Rathe promise was his, his alone.
And ever his great eye glistened With visions I could not see, Ever he thrilled and listened To voices withholden from me.
Young lord of the realms of fancy, The bright dreams flocked to his call Like sprites that the necromancy Of a Prospero holds in thrall--Quick visions that served and attended, Elusive and hovering things, With a quiver of joy in the splendid Wild sweep of their luminous wings;
He dwelt in an alien glamor, He wrought of its gleams a crown,--But the world, with its cruelty and clamor, Broke him and beat him down;
So he passed; he was worn, he was weary, He was slain at the touch of life;--With a smile that was wistful and eerie He passed from the senseless strife;--So he ceased (is their humor satiric, These gods that make perfect and blight?)--He ceased like an exquisite lyric That dies on the breast of night.
