My hope to take his hand,
His world my promised land,
I thought no face so beautiful and high.
When he had called me "Friend,"
I reached ambition's end,
And Art's protection in his kindly eye.

My dream was quickly run--
I knew Endymion;
His wing was fancy and his soarings play;
No great thirsts in him pent,
His hates were indolent,
His graces calm and eloquent alway.

Not love's converse now seems
So tender to my dreams
As he, discursive at our mutual desk,
Most fervid and most ripe,
When dreaming at his pipe,
He made the opiate nights grow Arabesque.

His crayon never sharp,
No discord in his harp,
He made such sweetness I was discontent;
He knew not the desire
To rise from warmth to fire,
And with his magic rend the firmament.

Perhaps some want of faith,
Perhaps some past heart-scath,
Took from his life the zest of reaching far--
And so grew my regret,
To see my pride forget
That many watched him like a risen star.

Some moralist in man--
Even Bohemian--
Feathers the pen and nerves the archer too.
Not dear decoying art,
But the crushed, loving heart,
Makes the young life to its resolves untrue.

Therefore his haunts were sad;
Therefore his rhymes were glad;
Therefore he laughed at my reproach and goad--
With listless dreams and vague,
Passed not the walls of Prague,
To hew some fresh and individual road.

Still like an epic round,
With beautifulness crowned,
I read his memory, tenderer every year,
Complete with graciousness,
Gifted and purposeless,
But to my heart as some grand Master dear.