44
TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
I send, as now, my spirit to commune
With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower
From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,
One little diamond from thy priceless mine
Of blight and glorious thought, one gentle sigh
From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild
Excess of dreaming passion far too rich
To find its proper guerdon in a cold,
Unfeeling world like this.
With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower
From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,
One little diamond from thy priceless mine
Of blight and glorious thought, one gentle sigh
From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild
Excess of dreaming passion far too rich
To find its proper guerdon in a cold,
Unfeeling world like this.
Oh cousin mine,
Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamed
Oft of the glory of our ancient race
Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,
Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,
In thee all perfected I've sat and mused
On thee with blissful tears, until my soul
Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn
Visions of love and immortality.
In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee
In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed
Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamed
Oft of the glory of our ancient race
Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,
Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,
In thee all perfected I've sat and mused
On thee with blissful tears, until my soul
Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn
Visions of love and immortality.
In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee
In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed
