With those clear parts of him that will not die. 
Himself from out the recent dark I claim 80
To hear, and, if I flatter him, to blame;
To show himself, as still I seem to see,
A mortal, built upon the antique plan,
Brimful of lusty blood as ever ran,
And taking life as simply as a tree! 
To claim my foiled good-by let him appear,
Large-limbed and human as I saw him near,
Loosed from the stiffening uniform of fame: 
And let me treat him largely; I should fear,
(If with too prying lens I chanced to err, 90
Mistaking catalogue for character,)
His wise forefinger raised in smiling blame. 
Nor would I scant him with judicial breath
And turn mere critic in an epitaph;
I choose the wheat, incurious of the chaff
That swells fame living, chokes it after death,
And would but memorize the shining half
Of his large nature that was turned to me: 
Fain had I joined with those that honored him
With eyes that darkened because his were dim, 100
And now been silent:  but it might not be.

II

1.

In some the genius is a thing apart,
    A pillared hermit of the brain,
Hoarding with incommunicable art
        Its intellectual gain;
    Man’s web of circumstance and fate
    They from their perch of self observe,
Indifferent as the figures on a slate
    Are to the planet’s sun-swung curve
    Whose bright returns they calculate; 110
    Their nice adjustment, part to part,
Were shaken from its serviceable mood
By unpremeditated stirs of heart
    Or jar of human neighborhood: 
Some find their natural selves, and only then,
In furloughs of divine escape from men,
And when, by that brief ecstasy left bare,
    Driven by some instinct of desire,
They wander worldward, ’tis to blink and stare,
Like wild things of the wood about a fire, 120
Dazed by the social glow they cannot share;
    His nature brooked no lonely lair,
But basked and bourgeoned in co-partnery,
Companionship, and open-windowed glee: 
        He knew, for he had tried,
    Those speculative heights that lure
The unpractised foot, impatient of a guide,
    Tow’rd ether too attenuately pure
For sweet unconscious breath, though dear to pride,
    But better loved the foothold sure 130
Of paths that wind by old abodes of men
Who hope at last the churchyard’s peace secure,
And follow time-worn rules, that them suffice,
Learned from their sires, traditionally wise,
Careful of honest custom’s how and when;
His mind, too brave to look on Truth askance,
No more those habitudes of faith could share,
But, tinged with sweetness of the old Swiss manse,
Lingered around them still and fain would spare. 
Patient to spy a sullen egg for weeks, 140
The enigma of creation to surprise,