So they have found your heart, Voltaire,
On a shelf of wormy books,
In a casket, hid and forgotten there? …
I wonder how it looks?
Shrivelled by Time's touch more cynic
Than your arid own?
With not a godless rhyme left in it,
Nor any quip for any clinic
Of wits to analyse, or prize?
A clot none shall bemoan?

There is another laid in Rome,
Under a pyramid,
Whose love of beauty baffled the fires
Which it was flung amid.
Voltaire, no pilgrim violets
Will come with Easter tread
In purple robes to worship you:
For only those who are loved shall live,
The rest being dead are dead.