And reverent, as reverend, was thy head.
Thy life was music, and thou mad’st it ours.
Not thine, crude scorn of gentle household things;
And yet thy spirit had the sea-bird’s wings,
Nor rested long among the chestnut-flowers.
Spain’s coast of charm, and all the North Sea’s cold
Thou knewest, and thou knewest the soul of eld,
And dusty scroll and volume we beheld
To gold transmuted—not to hard-wrought gold,
But that clear shining of the eastern air,