Strange that you should have acted Gloriana
Who rule us in more spacious days, Diana!
She was the imperfect morning in which you
To the perfection of this full day grew,
So moted with your glory that we are
The lit companions of your blazing star
That makes our NOW the noon-day of all time,
And puts sweet flesh upon the limbs of rhyme
To sing the harvest of Creation home.
To what enchanted margin have we come?
Why is your spell not fragile? Can it last?
Beauty was all too brittle in the past;
And long in one place Joy has never been;
Nor without danger Artemis was seen.

I poise my wings and stand on the blue air,
(Little the dangerous for danger care),
With sharpened beak and eyes that never blink,
To pounce on Beauty on Destruction's brink.
Where do you lead? And what unguessed at coast
Will echo with your fame when we are gone?
What lands will dream of Beauty modelled on
That which we gaze at till our eyes grow dim?
I cannot see your equal, much less limn
Her features who will dare to evening lands
Bring back your crescent lids, your lips, your hands,
And distillation of distinguished words
Which drop as slow as honey out of gourds:
‘“It was no dream”’: I heard them, well they might
Assure me no enchantment lured the sight!

But lest one think to feel your very breath
When we are lying in the gap of death,
I sing and say to all who then may be:
What they behold is but your effigy,
An aberration out of Beauty's path,
Pretender in Perfection's aftermath!
Where are the regal tresses of dull gold,
The strange vert eyes so steady and so cold,
The body carried to an inward tune
As if the Graces had become triune?
Nor would we rise, nor have a voice recall
Us who in brave days loved the original.