On the Death of a Poet

ONLY the Swans that day
Saw the high maker of our thoughts embark
And on the Lake Mysterious fade away
In the black ship that crosses to the dark.

The poet's robe was his,
Embroidered with illustrious fleurs-de-lys;
And laurel leaf and thorn
His sad prefigured forehead did adorn.

Afar God's City rose,
Where everlasting Peace her throne has reared
Above the poppy-meadows of repose;
And as the coast of his desire he neared.
He proved divine delight, knew grace untold,
Beheld the Cross uplifted and, before
That sacred Conqueror,
The fallen Sphinx, a corpse already cold.