Thy friends, thou wert too delicate
For many to be thine;
And like words written on the sands
Are those on Friendship's shrine:
A few set words, a few vain tears,
And so is clos'd the faith of years.
The world it had no part in thee;
Too sensitive to bear
Unkindness or repulse; too true
The usual mask to wear:
Alas! the gold too much refined,
Is not for common use designed.
Thy dreams of fame were vague and void,
The mystery of a star,
Whose glory lifted us from earth,
The beautiful, the far;
And yet these dreams of fame to thee
Were dearer than reality.
Alas! e'en these have been in vain,
The prize has not been won;
Thy lute is a forgotten lute,—
Thy name, a nameless one:
The wild wind in the pine tree bough,
Is all the requiem for thee now.
