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Turgenev, gentlest of the sons of pain,
Who in a line, as Homer wont, distillest
The essence of all pathos, thou who fillest
A human place ’twixt the Cyclopean twain,
’Tis not with hell-fire driven o’er the brain,
Nor stretched titanic canvas that thou thrillest,
But by the plotted garden-space thou tillest,
Making man’s middle courses thy domain.
Here once more we discern how still great art
Meets nature greatly. Elemental powers
Pulse in thy perfect pages. Souls depart
With awe upon them to the silent bowers.
The world is ever with thee, its great heart
Laid to thy beating own, as thine to ours.
Hesepe, 21st May