Bosomed in the young years, perchance repose
As lovely forms, and spirits as divine;
He in the perfectness of youth arose,
Soon death may hold him in her mystic twine;
Nature that gave him to mankind, not long
Endures his absence from her ravished breast;
Sick for the love of what she looks upon,
She opes her veins to engulf him to sweet rest:
Now the keen chords of love, with thrilling touch,
Tremble intense music all along thy wings;
Now thou dost all pervade, and hallow such
As thought of joyance, and of beauty brings:
Swell now the thronging harmonies that roll
The breath of love and beauty through the soul!