There too the face half-rustic, half-divine, Self-poised, sagacious, freaked with humor fine, Of him who taught us not to mow and mope About our fancied selves, but seek our scope In Nature’s world and Man’s, nor fade to hollow trope, Content with our New World and timely bold To challenge the o’ermastery of the Old; Listening with eyes averse I see him sit Pricked with the cider of the Judge’s wit (Ripe-hearted homebrew, fresh and fresh again), While the wise nose’s firm-built aquiline Curves sharper to restrain The merriment whose most unruly moods Pass not the dumb laugh learned in listening woods Of silence-shedding pine: Hard by is he whose art’s consoling spell Hath given both worlds a whiff of asphodel, His look still vernal ’mid the wintry ring Of petals that remember, not foretell, The paler primrose of a second spring. 5. And more there are: but other forms arise And seen as clear, albeit with dimmer eyes: First he from sympathy still held apart By shrinking over-eagerness of heart, Cloud charged with searching fire, whose shadow’s sweep Heightened mean things with sense of brooding ill, And steeped in doom familiar field and hill,-- New England’s poet, soul reserved and deep, November nature with a name of May, Whom high o’er Concord plains we laid to sleep, While the orchards mocked us in their white array And building robins wondered at our tears, Snatched in his prime, the shape august That should have stood unbent ’neath fourscore years, The noble head, the eyes of furtive trust, All gone to speechless dust. And he our passing guest, Shy nature, too, and stung with life’s unrest, Whom we too briefly had but could not hold, Who brought ripe Oxford’s culture to our board, The Past’s incalculable hoard, Mellowed by scutcheoned panes in cloisters old, Seclusions ivy-hushed, and pavements sweet With immemorial lisp of musing feet; Young head time-tonsured smoother than a friar’s, Boy face, but grave with answerless desires, Poet in all that poets have of best, But foiled with riddles dark and cloudy aims, Who now hath found sure rest, Not by still Isis or historic Thames, Nor by the Charles he tried to love with me, But, not misplaced, by Arno’s hallowed brim, Nor scorned by Santa Croce’s neighboring fames, Haply not mindless, wheresoe’er he be, Of violets that to-day I scattered over him; He, too, is there, After the good centurion fitly named, Whom learning dulled not, nor convention tamed, Shaking with burly mirth his hyacinthine hair, Our hearty Grecian of Homeric ways, Still found the surer friend where least he hoped the praise. 6.