When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place

(I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made

Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face,

While wondering still to be a shade, with Grania's shade

All but the perils of the woodland flight forgot

That made her Dermuid dear, and some old cardinal

Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot

Who had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath—

Aye and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim, all

Who have lived in joy and laughed into the face of Death.