The Dead Poet.

When I grow old they'll come to me and say:

Did you then know him in that distant day?

Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe

The proud eyes’ fire, soft voice and light lips’ curve?

And I shall answer: This man was my friend;

Call to my memory, add, improve, amend

And count up all the meetings that we had

And note his good and touch upon his bad.

When I grow older and more garrulous,

I shall discourse on the dead poet thus:

I said to him... he answered unto me...

He dined with me one night in Trinity...

I supped with him in King's... Ah, pitiful

The twisted memories of an ancient fool

And sweet the silence of a young man dead!

Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head,

Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong,

Lifted above the chances that belong

To us who live, for he shall not grow old

And only of his youth there shall be told

Magical stories, true and wondrous tales,

As of a god whose virtue never fails,

Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall,

And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.