TO E. FITZGERALD
       Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange
       Where once I tarried for a while,
       Glance at the wheeling Orb of change
       And greet it with a kindly smile;
       Whom yet I see, as there you sit
       Beneath your sheltering garden tree,
       And watch your doves about you flit
       And plant on shoulder, hand and knee,
       Or on your head their rosy feet,
       As if they knew your diet spares
       Whatever moved in that full sheet
       Let down to Peter at his prayers;
       * * * * *
       But none can say
       That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought,
       Who reads your golden Eastern lay,
       Than which I know no version done
       In English more divinely well;
       A planet equal to the sun;
       Which cast it, that large infidel
       Your Omar: and your Omar drew
       Full-handed plaudits from our best
       In modern letters....
       _Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ _