When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,
      And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;
      Or underneath the barren bush
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;

Come, wear the form by which I know
      Thy spirit in time among thy peers;
      The hope of unaccomplish'd years
Be large and lucid round thy brow.

When summer's hourly-mellowing change
      May breathe, with many roses sweet,
      Upon the thousand waves of wheat,
That ripple round the lonely grange;

Come: not in watches of the night,
      But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
      Come, beauteous in thine after form,
And like a finer light in light.


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Last modified 16 February 2010