Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends. - Lionel Pigot Johnson

The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces, full of fear; Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad; I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world‘s employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.