Chatterton

For summers seventeen This flower of spring Scattered fragrance That dwelt in its petals seventeen. Seventeen song-hours, A heart never weary; A soul with honey of all flowers A song as enchanting as stars.

A boy never grown old, A lute never tiring to sing, A mind ne'er chilled Though Hunger's hand lay cold.

Steely-cold on his breast, Yet the boy sang; Loved as alone a poet can Endlessly, without rest. Just seventeen! Ne'er old, though time passes; A golden lyre-string Has not yet ceased ringing:

Rings through the heart of time O'er the summit of death To the music of the Nine Into the heart of Eternal Rhyme.

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A summer song it was, Counting of many unseen stars In an intangible sky Making new milky ways-- Silver-shadow-paths that lead From sapphire abysses Into deeper abysses still. The deeps of our souls Lit by passion's burning flowers Tremulous, timorous flames of silver, That with thousand hands Our hearts sought to pluck and scatter, Or make barbed garlands For love's nuptial hour. Nuptial hour, briefer than a moment, Longer than Heaven's Eternal summer, When each flower burns to soothe, And each soothing petal burns anew; Till myriad streams of fire Strewn with countless flaming stars Bear us to the far sea of Time Where no summer dies, Nor endure the stinging moments of love's winter.

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