Oh Landor, in your quiet grave
What room is there for wrath or pride?
The peace your heart did break and crave
Is yours—and what beside?

Do you, with all that ghostly throng
You met in dreams, now such as they,
Wander in earnest talk along
Acheron's waters grey?

And does your now immortal maid
For whom you wrote and lived and sighed,
Move there, a pale and lovely shade
For ever by your side?

In that dim world of falling leaves
Which spoke for you no word of fear,
I pray that now your soul receives
That not “too precious” tear.