Fair things are slow to fade away, Bear witness you, that yesterday1 From out the Ghost of Pindar inyou Roll’d an Olympian; and they say2 That here the torpid mummy wheat Of Egypt bore a grain as sweet As that which gilds the glebe of England, Sunn’d with a summer of milder heat. So may this legend for awhile, If greeted by your classic smile, Tho’ dead in its Trinacrian Enna, Blossom again on a colder isle.
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