Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere,
Forgive my play fantastic with thy name,
Distilling its true essence by the flame
Which Love ‘neath Fancy’s limbeck lighteth clear.
I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;
If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame,
Or furthering by failure each high aim;
If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear;
But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by–
Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod–
We laying down the staff, and He the rod–
So look on me I shall not need to cry–
“We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I:
We mean the same thing–will the will of God!”
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