When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; 
Or underneath the barren bush
Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years
Be large and lucid round thy brow.

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 
That ripple round the lonely grange;

Come: not in watches of the night, 
But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 
And like a finer light in light.