A Youth, yet age had touched him, and he seemed
Lovely and piteous, like a frosted flower.
A Book was in his hand, a page that teemed
With joy of beauty. (He who made it, slept
Where o’er his heart the Roman violets dreamed.)
Sailing, he smiled; a tryst his spirit kept;
Thoughts lucent-pinioned did as psyches flit
Across his summer dream; till on him swept
The swift black storm, and Fate and Death did sit
Betwixt its cloudy wings as down it bore;