O, dear son of beauty--o, father of Indolence
Do not die more
ever, nor live forever.
Unjust to thee across our eyes from innocence.
Not sadness to her mercy hand of sever
Shall thy illness bear unwritten Ode of Psyche ness.
For how high is our heavens, can my arms reach
Further to yours? O shall thee compare?
Of truth--but is our beauty of
As thou Urn of Grecian inheritance and share?
But to feel in City Pent with one who
Felt thus fair glance into thy heavenly tongue.
To ye, who hath to leave
Hyperion an unsolved faller,
‘Here lies one whose name was writ on water.’