 | Valete |  |
18
On Leaving Farringford.
1883.
You waved your hand, I could not say farewell,
For those last words, “My time can not be long,”
Took speech away. Great Leader of our song,
Time cannot touch the thought-built citadel
Wherein thou sittest throned! What sovereign spell,
If thy voice ceases, what prevailing tongue,
Can tune earth's discords, show us right from wrong
And light the darkening years wherein we dwell?
For those last words, “My time can not be long,”
Took speech away. Great Leader of our song,
Time cannot touch the thought-built citadel
Wherein thou sittest throned! What sovereign spell,
If thy voice ceases, what prevailing tongue,
Can tune earth's discords, show us right from wrong
And light the darkening years wherein we dwell?
But if the dread, inevitable hour
Comes near, and now the music of thy mind
Is fit for angels' high intelligence,
Yet take thy harp, leave one last strain behind,
To bid us guide the world's advancing power
Up steps of change, with slow-foot reverence.
Comes near, and now the music of thy mind
Is fit for angels' high intelligence,
Yet take thy harp, leave one last strain behind,
To bid us guide the world's advancing power
Up steps of change, with slow-foot reverence.
| Valete | |