Poetry Archives

Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere,
Forgive my play fantastic with thy name,
Distilling its true essence by the flame
Which Love ’neath Fancy’s limbeck lighteth clear.
I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;
If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame,
Or furthering by failure each high aim;
If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear;
But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by—
Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod—
We laying down the staff, and He the rod—
So look on me I shall not need to cry—
“We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I:
We mean the same thing—will the will of God!”