existence, Till we see them sitting queenly Crowned and courted by regrets!
All that loveliest and best is, Aureole-fashion round their head, They that looked in life but plainly, How they stir our spirits vainly When they come to us, Alcestis— Like returning from the dead!
Not the old love but another, Bright she comes at memory’s call, Our forgotten vows reviving To a newer, livelier living, As the dead child to the mother Seems the fairest child of all.
Thus our Goethe, sacred master, Travelling backward thro’ his youth, Surely wandered wrong in trying To renew the old, undying Loves that cling in memory faster Than they ever lived in truth.
Boulogne-sur-Mer, September 1872.