O " beauty making beautiful old rhyme"!
O eyes that men have worshipped long ago!
O lips that sang that we, we too, may know —
We, cloudy dreamers of a chilly clime,
Thin-blooded children of a tired time —
What love was like, when all his veins astir,
Proud of his glorious self and proud of Her,
The glad world wantoned in his splendid prime.

A fellow-drop in love's eternal stream,
The child of earth and heaven, cloud and spring,
A fellow-mote that glitters in the beam
Shot from the eye of Heaven's eternal King,
Dear Ghost, I take the parchment from your hand,
And open it, and read, and understand.