And yet thou art not gone Nor given wholly unto dream and dust: For, even upon This lonely western hill of Averoigne Thy flesh had never visited, I meet some wise and sentient wraith of thee, Some undeparting presence, gracious and august. More luminous for thee the vernal grass, More magically dark the Druid stone And in the mind thou art for ever shown As in a wizard glass; And from the spirit’s page thy runes can never pass.[5]
