Sweet poet, thou of whom these years that roll
Must one day yet the burdened birthright learn,
And by the darkness of thine eyes discern
How piercing was the sight within thy soul;
Gifted apart, thou goest to the great goal,
A cloud-bound radiant spirit, strong to earn
Light-reft, that prize for which loud myriads yearn
Vainly light-blest — the seer's aureole;
And doth thine ear, divinely dowered to catch
All spheral sounds in thy song blest so well,
Still hearken for my voice's slumbering spell
With wistful love? Ah! let the Muse now snatch
My wreath for thy young brows, and bend to watch
Thy veiled transfiguring sense's miracle.