 | Valete |  |
30
Leaving Aldworth.
October 11th, 1892.
When from his laurel grove, reluctant, slow,
To his far rest we bore the Poet dead,
One star alone in Heaven its radiance shed,
So lingered long our sad day's after-glow;
But when we neared that twilit town below,
A thousand stars our mute procession led:
The “Lyre” shone bright, the “Swan” flew overhead
And high on Hindhead, level stood the “Plow.”
To his far rest we bore the Poet dead,
One star alone in Heaven its radiance shed,
So lingered long our sad day's after-glow;
But when we neared that twilit town below,
A thousand stars our mute procession led:
The “Lyre” shone bright, the “Swan” flew overhead
And high on Hindhead, level stood the “Plow.”
A thousand suns that from the dawn had gleamed
Above his sleep, but waited eventide
To show their lamps and light the Poet home:
A thousand worlds from which full glory streamed,
To give us hope that though the dark had come,
His star of song should brighten and abide.
Above his sleep, but waited eventide
To show their lamps and light the Poet home:
A thousand worlds from which full glory streamed,
To give us hope that though the dark had come,
His star of song should brighten and abide.
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