I SAW him once, the while he sat and played—
A stripling with a shock of yellow hair—
His own rare songs, in mirth or sorrow made,
But render all, and fair.

And as the years rolled by I saw him not,
But still his songs full many a time I sung,
And thought of him as one who has the lot
To be for ever young. …

I grieve with grief that to a death belongs:
How Time is stern I had forgot, in truth,
And how that men wax old, whereas their songs
Keep an immortal youth.