And when the white narcissus wantonly
Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy
Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond
maid and boy."
And, again, that fine concluding poem in which he bids farewell to youth, and laments his unworthiness of love—
"I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle
better than the poet's crown of bays."
It comes to seem a strangely prophetic first volume, when one recalls this epilogue, and still more so when one reads over again the opening sonnet "Hélas"—
"To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
My ancient wisdom and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
