I may not touch the hand I saw
So nimbly weave the violet chain;
I may not see my artist draw
That southward-sloping lawn again.
But joy brimmed over when we met,
Nor can I mourn our parting yet.

Though he lies sick and far away,
I play with those that still are here,
Not honouring him the less, for they
To me by loving him are dear:
They share, they soothe my fond regret,
Since neither they nor I forget.

His sweet strong heart so nobly beat
With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal,
That vibrant hearts of ours repeat
What they with him were wont to feel;
Still quiring in that higher key,
Till he take up the melody.

If there be any music here,
I trust it will not fail, like notes
Of May-birds, when the warning year
Abates their summer-wearied throats.
Shame on us, if we drudge once more
As dull and tuneless as before.

Without him I was weak and coarse,
My soul went droning through the hours,
His goodness stirred a latent force
That drew from others kindred powers.
Nor they nor I could think me base,
When with their prince I had found grace.

His influence crowns me, like a cloud
Steeped in the light of a lost sun:
I reign, for willing knees are bowed
And light behests are gladly done:
So Rome obeyed the lover-king,
Who drank at pure Egeria's spring.

Such honour doth my mind perplex:
For, who is this, I ask, that dares
With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks,
And tangled creeds, and subtle cares,
Affront the look, or speak the name
Of one who from Elysium came.

And yet, though withered and forlorn,
I had renounced what man desires,
I'd thought some poet might be born
To string my lute with silver wires;
At least in brighter days to come
Such men as I would not lie dumb.

I saw the Sibyl's finger rest
On fate's unturned imagined page,
Believed her promise, and was blest
With dreams of that heroic age.
She sent me, ere my hope was cold,
One of the race that she foretold.

His fellows time will bring, and they,
In manifold affections free,
Shall scatter pleasures day by day
Like blossoms rained from windy tree.
So let that garden bloom; and I,
Content with one such flower, will die.