Forty years back, when much had place

That since has perished out of mind,

I heard that voice and saw that face.

He spoke as one afoot will wind

A morning horn ere men awake;

His note was trenchant, turning kind.

He was of those whose wit can shake

And riddle to the very core

The counterfeits that Time will break . . .

Of late, when we two met once more,

The luminous countenance and rare

Shone just as forty years before.

So that, when now all tongues declare

His shape unseen by his green hill,

I scarce believe he sits not there.

No matter.  Further and further still

Through the world’s vaporous vitiate air

His words wing on—as live words will.

May 1909.