When your white hands have lost their fairy power,
Like dimpling water flash and charm no more,
Quick pride of grace is still, closed your bright eyes—
I still must think, under those Northern skies,
Some influence shall remain of all that sweet;
Some flower of courage braving Easter sleet;
Colour to stir tears in tenderest skies;
Music of light. Your Autumn beeches shall
Set passion blazing in a heart until
Colour you gave be fashioned in formal line
On line; another’s beauty prove divine,
And all your wandering grace shall not be lost
To earth, being too precious, too great of cost—
Last wonder to awake the divine spark,
A lovely presence lighting Summer’s dark;
Though dust your frame of flesh, such dust as makes
Blue radiance of March in hidden brakes....
Pass from your body then, be what you will,
Whose light-foot walk outdanced the daffodil,
Since Time can but confirm you and fulfil
That hidden crescent power in you—Old Time,
Spoiler of pride, and towers, and breath, and rhyme,
Yet on the spirit impotent of power and will.