Canto LXXXIX
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;Or underneath the barren bushFlits by the sea-blue bird of March;
Come, wear the form by which I knowThy spirit in time among thy peers;The hope of unaccomplish’d yearsBe large and lucid round thy brow.
When summer’s hourly-mellowing changeMay breathe with many roses sweetUpon 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.