Yes, ev’n like thee must gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!”
Those poet-eyes, with inspiration burning —
Half wild, half pensive, still they haunt my dream —
Eyes, in whose depths the soul of passionate yearning,
Intense unrest, and high devotion gleam.
The Spirit of the Ideal, throned in glory,
Shines with superior brightness on that brow: —
O, laurel-crowned! thou famed in song and story,
How sweetly float thy spell-strains o’er me now!