Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.
Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.