THE weltering London ways where children weep And girls whom none call maidens laugh,—strange road Miring his outward steps, who inly trode The bright Castalian brink and Latmos` steep:— Even such his life`s cross-paths; till deathly deep He toiled through sands of Lethe; and long pain, Weary with labour spurned and love found vain, In dead Rome`s sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep. O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lips And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon`s eclipse,— Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o`er,— Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ But rumour`d in water, while the fame of it Along Time`s flood goes echoing evermore.SourceThe script ran 0 seconds.
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