Her "Last Poems"

Poets ended,

Silver perished with her tongue,

Not on record bubbled other

Flute, or Woman, so divine;

Not unto its Summer morning

Robin uttered half the tune—

Gushed too free for the adoring,

From the Anglo-Florentine.

Late the praise—

'Tis dull conferring

On a Head too high to crown,

Diadem or Ducal showing,

Be its Grave sufficient sign.

Yet if we, no Poet's kinsman,

Suffocate with easy woe

What and if ourself a Bridegroom,

Put Her down, in Italy?