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Turgenev, gentlest of the sons of pain, Who in a line, as Homer wont, distillest The essence of all pathos, thou who fillest A human place ’twixt the Cyclopean twain, ’Tis not with hell-fire driven o’er the brain, Nor stretched titanic canvas that thou thrillest, But by the plotted garden-space thou tillest, Making man’s middle courses thy domain. Here once more we discern how still great art Meets nature greatly. Elemental powers Pulse in thy perfect pages. Souls depart With awe upon them to the silent bowers. The world is ever with thee, its great heart Laid to thy beating own, as thine to ours.

HESEPE, 21st May