Back to the flower-town, side by side, 
The bright months bring, 
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, 
Freedom and spring.


The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, 
Filled full of sun; 
All things come back to her, being free; 
All things but one.


In many a tender wheaten plot 
Flowers that were dead 
Live, and old suns revive; but not 
That holier head.


By this white wandering waste of sea, 
Far north, I hear 
One face shall never turn to me 
As once this year:


Shall never smile and turn and rest 
On mine as there, 
Nor one most sacred hand be prest 
Upon my hair.


I came as one whose thoughts half linger, 
Half run before; 
The youngest to the oldest singer 
That England bore.


I found him whom I shall not find 
Till all grief end, 
In holiest age our mightiest mind, 
Father and friend.


But thou, if anything endure, 
If hope there be, 
O spirit that man's life left pure, 
Man's death set free,


Not with disdain of days that were 
Look earthward now; 
Let dreams revive the reverend hair, 
The imperial brow;


Come back in sleep, for in the life 
Where thou art not 
We find none like thee. Time and strife 
And the world's lot


Move thee no more; but love at least 
And reverent heart 
May move thee, royal and released, 
Soul, as thou art.


And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 
Receive and keep, 
Keep safe his dedicated dust, 
His sacred sleep.


So shall thy lovers, come from far, 
Mix with thy name 
As morning-star with evening-star 
His faultless fame.