When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;
Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years Be large and lucid round thy brow.
When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe with many roses sweet Upon 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.