Now when again my wistful eyes I turn
To greet thy beacon fires, feeding the urn
Of memory with sweet thoughts—I almost see
The presence of the loved and lost in thee,
Kindling within my soul a pure desire
To blend with thine its pale, candescent fire.
I have “no refuge from thy light,” no home
Save in the depths of yon empyrian dome,
Where thy bright Pharos ’mid the stars doth burn,
“Whence I departed, whither I return,”