 | Under the dawn |  |
195
ITALY TO ENGLAND.
He was too fair! I loved him overmuch.
Sweet sister, is it altogether ill
That he no more can feel the wintry chill,
No more be pierced by sorrow's icy touch?
That he has, once for all, escaped the clutch
Of poverty and loneliness and scorn,
And that another poet has been born
Into Elysian fields, made fair with such?
Sweet sister, is it altogether ill
That he no more can feel the wintry chill,
No more be pierced by sorrow's icy touch?
That he has, once for all, escaped the clutch
Of poverty and loneliness and scorn,
And that another poet has been born
Into Elysian fields, made fair with such?
I laid a tender hand upon his head—
Alas! the love and passion in it slew;
Now is he numbered with the gifted dead,
Whose wings divide the unfathomable blue
Of my bright heaven;—and their fame is shed
Upon me in remembrance ever new.
Alas! the love and passion in it slew;
Now is he numbered with the gifted dead,
Whose wings divide the unfathomable blue
Of my bright heaven;—and their fame is shed
Upon me in remembrance ever new.
| Under the dawn | |