XXX
The Young Poet
If there be any grief
For those lost eremites
That live in lonely tombs,
It is on Autumn nights,
At falling of the leaf;
It is when pale October,
Relentless tree-disrober,
Invades the silent homes.
But him no Autumn's chill
Shall have the power to harm:
Predominant, his lyre
Shall keep remembrance warm
And leave him lovely still:
And spirits softly winging
Shall listen to his singing,
And weep for his desire.
59
