When rosy plumelets tuft the larch

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.