Last Of His Ulysses. Bright And Wide For Him Time'S Dark Strait Ways, Like Clouds That Clung About The Day-Star, Doubtful To Divide, Waxed In His Spiritual Eyeshot, And His Tongue Spake As His Soul Bore Witness, That Descried, Like Those Twin Towering Lights In Darkness Hung, Homer, And Grey Laertes At His Side Kingly As Kings Are None Beneath A Later Sun, And The Sweet Maiden Ministering In Pride To Sovereign And To Sage In Their More Sweet Old Age: These Things He Sang, Himself As Old, And Died. And If Death Be Not, If Life Be, As Homer And As Milton Are In Heaven Is He. 50. Poet Whose Large-Eyed Loyalty Of Love Was Pure Toward All High Poets, All Their Kind And All Bright Words And All Sweet Works Thereof; Strong Like The Sun, And Like The Sunlight Kind; Heart That No Fear But Every Grief Might Move Wherewith Men'S Hearts Were Bound Of Powers That Bind; The Purest Soul That Ever Proof Could Prove From Taint Of Tortuous Or Of Envious Mind; Whose Eyes Elate And Clear Nor Shame Nor Ever Fear But Only Pity Or Glorious Wrath Could Blind; Name Set For Love Apart, Held Lifelong In My Heart, Face Like A Father'S Toward My Face Inclined; No Gilts Like Thine Are Mine To Give, Who By Thine Own Words Only Bid Thee Hail, And Live.