  For summers seventeen This flower of spring Scattered fragrance That dwelt in its petals seventeen. Seventeen song-hours, A heart never weary; A soul with honey of all flowers A song as enchanting as stars. A boy never grown old, A lute never tiring to sing, A mind ne'er chilled Though Hunger's hand lay cold. Steely-cold on his breast, Yet the boy sang; Loved as alone a poet can Endlessly, without rest. Just seventeen! Ne'er old, though time passes; A golden lyre-string Has not yet ceased ringing: Rings through the heart of time O'er the summit of death To the music of the Nine Into the heart of Eternal Rhyme. |
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