Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[1]
But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.
And sweet thou singest as when fully ran
Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse
The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,
On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,
Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,
It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.
Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,
Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"