To-day I have talked with old Euripides;
Shakespeare this morning sang for my content
Of chimney-sweepers; through the Carian trees
Comes beating still the nightingales’ lament;
The Tabard ales to-day are freshly brewed;
Wordsworth is with me, mounting Loughrigg Fell;
All timeless deaths in Lycid are renewed,
And basils blossom yet for Isabel.
Quick thoughts are these; they do not pass; they gave
Only to death such little, casual things
As are the noteless levies of the grave,—
Sad flesh, weak verse, and idle marketings.
So my mortality for yours complains,
While our immortal fellowship remains.