COLORS AND SURFACES

So young, but already the splendor

Of genius robed him about —

Already the dangerous, tender

Regard of the gods marked him out —

( On whom the burden and duty

They bind, at his earliest breath,

Of showing their own grave beauty,

They love and they crown with death. )

We were of one blood, but the olden

Rapt poets spake out in his tone;

We were of one blood, but the golden

Rathe promise was his, his alone.

And ever his great eye glistened

With visions I could not see,

Ever he thrilled and listened

To voices withholden from me.

Young lord of the realms of fancy,

The bright dreams flocked to his call

Like sprites that the necromancy

Of a Prospero holds in thrall —

Quick visions that served and attended,

Elusive and hovering things,

With a quiver of joy in the splendid

Wild sweep of their luminous wings;

He dwelt in an alien glamor,

He wrought of its gleams a crown,—

But the world, with its cruelty and clamor,

Broke him and beat him down;

So he passed; he was worn, he was weary,

He was slain at the touch of life;—

With a smile that was wistful and eerie

He passed from the senseless strife;—

So he ceased ( is their humor satiric,

These gods that make perfect and blight? ) —

He ceased like an exquisite lyric

That dies on the breast of night.