To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places,
He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes.
To-morrow (who can say) Shakespeare may pass—
And our lost friend just catch one syllable
Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well—
Or Milton, or Dante, looking on the grass
Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still
To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill.
(1181)
FUTURE, THE