(To His Memory)

They found him when the day Was yet but gloom; Six feet of scarréd clay Was ample room And wide enough domain for all desires For him, whose glowing eyes Made mock at lethargies, Were not a moment still;-- Can Death, all slayer, kill The fervent source of those exultant fires? Nay, not so; Somewhere that glow And starry shine so clear astonishes yet The wondering spirits as they come and go. Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.

OMIECOURT.