I

One sailed an azure sea in fateful hour: A Youth, yet age had touched him, and he seemed Lovely and piteous, like a frosted flower.

A Book was in his hand, a page that teemed With joy of beauty. (He who made it, slept Where o’er his heart the Roman violets dreamed.)

Sailing, he smiled; a tryst his spirit kept; Thoughts lucent-pinioned did as psyches flit Across his summer dream; till on him swept

The swift black storm, and Fate and Death did sit Betwixt its cloudy wings as down it bore; And he who read was rapt to him who writ. Twin stars they shine, one fame forevermore. A fire of funeral blazed, beside the sobbing shore.