To ---- .

A poem by Jean Ingelow

Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade
Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest,
While yet his form and presence sat a guest
With the old immortals when the feast was made.
Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid
In this dim chamber of enforc├Ęd rest,
It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed.
My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought
Falls from a high place like an August star,
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings -
When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar -
Down he steep slope of a long sunbeam brought,
He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings.

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