I.
Conceive that Perfect Man, to whom we tend,
The great Inheritor, on some sheer cape
Between the morn and morn-bright main: a shape
Wherein dead racer and dead wrestler blend
In living speed and power. Dead sages send
Their wisdom’s wine, matured like juice of grape,
His heart to strengthen. Songs his lips escape
That silenced lips of long-dead singers lend.
Enough for such, such immortality!