And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise,
And, one by one, so tenderly,
Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose,
Strewing each sweetest flower that grows
In wildwoods of Bohemia.
XVII.
But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood
Above the tiny clay, and said:
“Bright little Spirit, pure and good,
Whither so far away hast fled?