 | The single hound : poems of a lifetime |  |
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[LXXXVII. Her “Last Poems”]
Her “Last Poems”—Poets ended,
Silver perished with her tongue,
Not on record bubbled other
Flute, or Woman, so divine;
Not unto its Summer morning
Robin uttered half the tune—
Gushed too free for the adoring,
From the Anglo-Florentine.
Late the praise—
'Tis dull conferring
On a Head too high to crown,
Diadem or Ducal showing,
Be its Grave sufficient sign.
Yet if we, no Poet's kinsman,
Suffocate with easy woe,
What and if ourself a Bridegroom,
Put Her down, in Italy?
| The single hound : poems of a lifetime | |