Again I see him on the sunlit lawn,
As in the May-day of that final year,
With brow as radiant as the early dawn,
And eye transparent as the heavens clear.
With cloak o'er shoulder thrown in careless grace,
He stands enframed in budding flowers and trees,
A genial Orpheus, with Olympian face
Forever fanned by pure Arcadian breeze.
Ah, more to me than Prospero's magic isle
The paths and greensward where the poet dreamed;
The opening blossoms wooed his kindly smile,
The expectant flowers with richer colors gleamed.
My soul still clasps the warm and generous hand
Which wields the sceptre of a kingless land.