Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
III. Gentle Greatness Undervalued, till LostWilliam Green
F
Ay, ofttimes restless in the midnight blind,
His loss I mourn; it lies upon my mind
Like a thick mist that will not clear away,
But bodes, and brings, griefs showers. His was a sway
Of soul so gentle, we alone might find,
Not see its strength; a wit, that, ever kind,
Would spare the humbled in its freest play;—
A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep;—
His mighty powers attired themselves so plain
They drew no worship though they won the heart:
Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep;
But, as of visiting gods the poets feign,
We knew him not, till turning to depart.