On the anniversary of Charles' death in 1998, I with a friend sought out his grave in the graveyard of St. Cross Church, Oxford. We attached the following of Charles' poems to his grave (changing 'house' in the first line for 'grave') and sat a while in the Spring sunshine thinking of him and his work.
Over this house* a star
Shines in the heavens high,
Beauty remote and afar,
Beauty that shall not die;
Beauty desired and dreamed,
Followed in storm and sun,
Beauty the gods have schemed
And mortals at last have won.
Beauty arose of old
And dreamed of a perfect thing,
Where none shall be angry or cold
Or armed with an evil sting;
Where the world shall be made anew,
For the gods shall breathe its air,
And Phoebus Apollo there-through
Shall move on a golden stair.
The star that all lives shall seek,
That makers of books desire;
All that in anywise speak
Look to this silver fire:
O'er the toil that is giv'n to do,
O'er the search and the grinding pain
Seen by the holy few,
Perfection glimmers again.
O dreamed in an eager youth,
O known between friend and friend,
Seen by the seekers of truth,
Lo, peace and the perfect end!
I might be foolish, but that morning lives in my memory.