On a Great Man whose Mind is Clouding

That sovereign thought obscured? That vision clearDimmed in the shadow of the sable wing,And fainter grown the fine interpretingWhich as an oracle was ours to hear!Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seerTheir gift,—although he ceases here to sing,And, like the antique sage, a coveringDraws round his head, knowing what change is near.

1882