Kin to the souls ye had, while time endures,
Known to each exiled, each estrangèd stone
Home in the quarries of old Christendom,—
Ah, mark him: he will lay his cheek to yours.
II
Is this the end? is this the pilgrim’s day
For dread, for dereliction, and for tears?
Rather, from grass and air and many spheres
In prophecy his spirit sinks away;
And under English eaves, more still than they,