Thanks to the artist, ever on my wall
The sunset stays:  that hill in glory rolled,
Those trees and clouds in crimson and in gold,
Burn on, nor cool when evening’s shadows fall. 
Not round these splendors Midnight wraps her pall;
These leaves the flush of Autumn’s vintage hold
In Winter’s spite, nor can the Northwind bold
Deface my chapel’s western window small: 
On one, ah me!  October struck his frost,
But not repaid him with those Tyrian hues;
His naked boughs but tell him what is lost,
And parting comforts of the sun refuse: 
His heaven is bare,—­ah, were its hollow crost
Even with a cloud whose light were yet to lose!

TO MISS D.T.

ON HER GIVING ME A DRAWING OF LITTLE STREET ARABS

As, cleansed of Tiber’s and Oblivion’s slime,
Glow Farnesina’s vaults with shapes again
That dreamed some exiled artist from his pain
Back to his Athens and the Muse’s clime,
So these world-orphaned waifs of Want and Crime,
Purged by Art’s absolution from the stain
Of the polluting city-flood, regain
Ideal grace secure from taint of time. 
An Attic frieze you give, a pictured song;
For as with words the poet paints, for you
The happy pencil at its labor sings,
Stealing his privilege, nor does him wrong,
Beneath the false discovering the true,
And Beauty’s best in unregarded things.

WITH A COPY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE

Leaves fit to have been poor Juliet’s cradle-rhyme,
With gladness of a heart long quenched in mould
They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown cold
From its fledged burthen.  The numb hand of Time
Vainly his glass turns; here is endless prime;
Here lips their roses keep and locks their gold;
Here Love in pristine innocency bold
Speaks what our grosser conscience makes a crime. 
Because it tells the dream that all have known
Once in their lives, and to life’s end the few;
Because its seeds o’er Memory’s desert blown
Spring up in heartsease such as Eden knew;
Because it hath a beauty all its own,
Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace for you.

ON PLANTING A TREE AT INVERARAY

Who does his duty is a question
  Too complex to be solved by me,
But he, I venture the suggestion,
  Does part of his that plants a tree.

For after he is dead and buried,
  And epitaphed, and well forgot,
Nay, even his shade by Charon ferried
  To—­let us not inquire to what,

His deed, its author long outliving,
  By Nature’s mother-care increased,
Shall stand, his verdant almoner, giving
  A kindly dole to man and beast.

The wayfarer, at noon reposing,
  Shall bless its shadow on the grass,
Or sheep beneath it huddle, dozing
  Until the thundergust o’erpass.