My gentle Aubrey, who in everything
Hadst of thy city’s youth so lovely lust,
Yet never lineal to her towers august
Thy spirit could fix, or perfectly upbring,
Sleep, sleep! I ope, not unremembering,
Thy comely manuscript, and, interthrust,
Find delicate hueless leaves more sad than dust,
Two centuries unkissed of any spring.
Filling a homesick page beneath a lime,
Thy mood beheld, as mine thy debtor’s now,
The endless terraces of ended Time,
Vague in green twilight. Goodly was release
Into that Past where these poor leaves, and thou,
Do freshen in the air of eldest peace.