WE never met; yet to my soul
Thy name hath been a voice of singing,
And ever to thy glorious lays
The echoes of my heart are ringing.

We never met; yet is thy face,
Thy pictured face, before me now;
Strangely, like life, I almost see
The dark curls wave upon thy brow!

This face reveals that poet-life,
Still deepening, still rising higher,
A breathing from thy soul of song,
A glow from out thy heart of fire!

And yet, unlike thy portraiture
I would thy living face might be,
For ever, as I gaze on this,
Thine eyes are turned away from me.