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SONNET
Beauteous as Venuses emerging fresh
From the calm lymph, wherein they lurk all lone,
Some thoughts there be, inadequately shown
Except in Song their beauty we enflesh ;
And such the sweet symphonious thoughts which press
Round thee, great Théo, whom unknown I’ve known,
And loved most lovingly, whose faintest tone
Prismatic dazes me with magic stress.
So, Death at length hath ta’en thy hand : black Death
With whom, when drunk with golden Light and joy,
’T was thy quaint whim to dally, no wise coy,
Death hath for true-love kissed thee, still whose breath
Pipes the same tune for ever : — « My repose
Is more than sunshine — sweeter than the Rose ! »
WILLIAM BONAPARTE-WYSE.
