Send up their murmurs to thine ear.
There are to whom these lays shall come
Like strains that sky-larks downward send;
But ah, no higher than thy heart
They sing to thee, belovéd friend!
For in thy manhood pure and strong,
With thy great soul, thy fresh, young heart,
Thou livest my ideal life,
And what I only dream thou art.
The Grecian youth whose name thou bear’st,