Beaconed by a Great Light, the pilot-star
Of valiant souls, who keep
Through the long strife of thought-life free from scathe
The luminous guidance of the larger faith.

No sadness of farewell? Great Singer, crowned
With lustrous laurel, facing that far light,
In whose white radiance dark seems whelmed and drowned,
And death a passing shade, of meaning slight;
Sunset, and evening star, and that clear call,
The twilight shadow, and the evening bell,
Bring naught of gloom for thee. Whate'er befall
Thou must indeed fare well.
But we--we have but memories now, and love
The plaint of fond regret will scarce reprove.

Great singer, he, and great among the great,
Or greatness hath no sure abiding test.
The poet's splendid pomp, the shining state
Of royal singing robes, were his, confest,
By slowly growing certitude of fame,
Since first, a youth, he found fresh-opening portals
To Beauty's Pleasure-House. Ranked with acclaim
Amidst the true Immortals,
The amaranth fields with native ease he trod,
Authentic son of the lyre-bearing god.

Fresh portals, untrod pleasaunces, new ways
In Art's great Palace, shrined in Nature's heart,
Sought the young singer, and his limpid lays,