YE TOO, dim watchfires of some darkling hour, <br />Whose fame forlorn time saves not nor proclaims <br />For ever, but forgetfulness defames <br />And darkness and the shadow of death devour, <br />Lift up ye too your light, put forth your power, <br />Let the far twilight feel your soft small flames <br />And smile, albeit night name not even their names, <br />Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown down on flower: <br />That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star’s that passed <br />Singing, and light was from its darkness cast <br />To paint the face of Painting fair with praise: <br />And that wherein forefigured smiles the pure <br />Fraternal face of Wordsworth’s Elidure <br />Between two child-faced masks of merrier days<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anonymous-plays-xvii/
