Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/151

 Still toward the old garden of the Sun, whose fruit The honey-heavy lips of Sophocles Desired and sang, wherein the unwithering root Sprang of all growths that thought brings forth and sees

Incarnate, bright with bloom or dense with leaf Far-shadowing, deep as depth of dawn or night: And all were parcel of the garnered sheaf His strenuous spirit bound and stored aright.

And eastward now, and ever toward the dawn, If death's deep veil by life's bright hand be rent, We see, as through the shadow of death withdrawn, The imperious soul's indomitable ascent.

But not the soul whose labour knew not end— But not the swordsman's hand, the crested head— The royal heart we mourn, the faultless friend, Burton—a name that lives till fame be dead.