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YE TOO, dim watchfires of some darkling hour, Whose fame forlorn time saves not nor proclaims For ever, but forgetfulness defames And darkness and the shadow of death devour, Lift up ye too your light, put forth your power, Let the far twilight feel your soft small flames And smile, albeit night name not even their names, Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown down on flower: That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star’s that passed Singing, and light was from its darkness cast To paint the face of Painting fair with praise:1 And that wherein forefigured smiles the pure Fraternal face of Wordsworth’s Elidure Between two child-faced masks of merrier days.2 |
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1. Doctor Dodypol [back]
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