Across the centuries and in every land

His name is honoured still. In that long night

When learning’s flame was quenched, it was his hand

That lit the torch and brought the welcome light.

So says the world, and yet we treasure more

These songs that tell of frailties like our own—

The fruitless love which many a year he bore

That grew the brighter when its hope was gone.

The lays wherein his passion was enshrined

Outlast the ages. While from day to day

I read his lines, old age is left behind

And youth returns; these scattered locks of gray

Turn brown once more, and solemn wisdom dies

Under the witchery of my lady’s eyes.