A life more bright than the sun's face, bowed
Through stress of season and coil of cloud,
⁠Sets: and the sorrow that casts out fear
Scarce deems him dead in his chill still shroud,

Dead on the breast of the dying year,
Poet and painter and friend, thrice dear
⁠For love of the suns long set, for love
Of song that sets not with sunset here,

For love of the fervent heart, above
Their sense who saw not the swift light move
⁠That filled with sense of the loud sun's lyre
The thoughts that passion was fain to prove