And ever his great eye glistened
With visions I could not see,
Ever he thrilled and listened
To voices withholden from me.

Young lord of the realms of fancy,
The bright dreams flocked to his call
Like sprites that the necromancy
Of a Prospero holds in thrall--

Quick visions that served and attended,
Elusive and hovering things,
With a quiver of joy in the splendid
Wild sweep of their luminous wings;

He dwelt in an alien glamor,
He wrought of its gleams a crown,--
But the world, with its cruelty and clamor,
Broke him and beat him down;

So he passed; he was worn, he was weary,
He was slain at the touch of life;--
With a smile that was wistful and eerie
He passed from the senseless strife;--

So he ceased (is their humor satiric,
These gods that make perfect and blight?)--
He ceased like an exquisite lyric
That dies on the breast of night.