TO E. FITZGERALD.
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ld Fitz, who from your suburb grangeWhere once I tarried for a while,Glance at the wheeling Orb of changeAnd greet it with a kindly smile;Whom yet I see, as there you sitBeneath your sheltering garden tree,And watch your doves about you flitAnd plant on shoulder, hand and knee,Or on your head their rosy feet,As if they knew your diet sparesWhatever moved in that full sheetLet down to Peter at his prayers; * * * * * But none can sayThat Lenten fare makes Lenten thought,Who reads your golden Eastern lay,Than which I know no version doneIn English more divinely well;A planet equal to the sun;Which cast it, that large infidelYour Omar: and your Omar drewFull-handed plaudits from our bestIn modern letters.... _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._
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