For he has seen a road by healing waters
Hushed into wintry slate against the sand,
And spoken there with the wind's elfin daughters,
And mingled in their dusty saraband.
He has known winds that blow from blossomy closes,
Rich with the fruity smell of summertide,
And kissed warm faery lips... Now he reposes,
While we are not quite certain he has died.

A Dead Romanticist