Only in spiritual visitings Elysian
Are realized the bard’s imaginings.
Meanwhile thine image rises oft before me,
With memories that to mine own heart belong;
And as I muse on thy life’s hist’ry, o’er me
Comes the conviction, O, sad son of song!
That the celestial gift can never, never
For all the unrest it hath cost atone;
The Unattained still haunts us here forever —
There, in thy world, vain yearnings are unknown!