:Light and the subtler light of wizard fire,

And winds that strike forth hope on some grand lyre,

And spirits of blue air like April clouds,

And all the water-company that crowds

The river-spaces and dark open sea,

Conspired at his creation: Liberty,

Watching his prowess from her tower above,

Took to her side a royal-wingèd Love.

And when he died and they could do no more

To strengthen him who graced that southern shore

They bade a clearer, stronger sun arise

And drive old darkness from the Italian skies.

Many there be to-day whose foolish praise

Has dulled the roar of thy old fighting days,

So that thy hymns of intellectual joy

Seem but fine utterance of a wayward boy,

Thy call of war, thy thunderbolts of hate

A madman's cry, that rails against his fate;

Who find in them a vague and phantom truth

Or dim ideal of a lovelorn youth.

He was too beautiful; he died too young,

Before the mellow season of his prime;

Sweet songs he left, but sweeter songs unsung,

Whose thin ghosts wander out of space and time.

All his philosophy was Love and Hate,

His life a rainbow for the sun to fashion,

His thoughts most royally importunate,