I still have had

Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place

Present before my eyes, have played with times

(I speak of private business of the thought)

And accidents as children do with cards,

Or as a man, who, when his house is built,

A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth still

In impotence of mind by his fireside

Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought

Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence,

And all the strength and plumage of thy youth,

Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse

Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms

Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out

From things well-matched, or ill, and words for things –

The self-created sustenance of a mind

Debarred from Nature's living images,

Compelled to be a life unto itself,

And unrelentingly possessed by thirst

Of greatness, love, and beauty.