Edmund Clarence Stedman

On a Great Man Whose Mind Is Clouding

That sovereign thought obscured? That vision clear
⁠Dimmed in the shadow of the sable wing,
⁠And fainter grown the fine interpreting
Which as an oracle was ours to hear!
Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seer
⁠Their gift,—although he ceases here to sing,
⁠And, like the antique sage, a covering
Draws round his head, knowing what change is near.