Now silverly the linnet sings On leaves that from his temples start, And gay the yellow crocus springs From the rich clod that was his heart. FOR A CHILD His mind has neither need nor power to know The foolish things that men call right and wrong. For him the streams of pleasant love-wind flow, For him the mystic, sleep-compelling song. Through love he rules his love-made universe, And sees with eyes by ignorance made keen The fauns and elves whom older eyes disperse, Great Pan and all the fairies with their queen. King gods, I pray, bestow on him this dole, Not wisdom, wealth, nor mighty deeds to do, But let him keep his happy pagan soul, The poet-vision, simple, free and true, To hunt the rainbow-gold and phantom lights, And meet with dryads on the wooded heights. THE CLOUDED SUN (To A. S.) It is not good for poets to grow old, For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills; And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills, Call back their faithful servants to the fold Before Age makes them passionless and cold. Therefore it is that no more sorry thing Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass Than some grey head through which no longer pass Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing. Far happier he, who, young and full of pride And radiant with the glory of the sun, Leaves earth before his singing time is done. All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died. Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells The world may see his young impetuous face Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace; While memory no piteous story tells Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells. * * * * * Brother and Master, we are wed with woe. Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers About the head of us, thy mournful lovers. Uncomforted and sick with pain we go, Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow. The London lights flare on the chattering street, Young men and maidens love and dance and die; Wine flows, and the perfumes float up to the sky. Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet, Now thou art still--mouth, hands and weary feet. O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed The smile of those she kisses at their birth, Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth. Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased. There is no harsher tragedy than this-- That thou, who feltest as no man before Scent, colour, taste and sound and didst outpour For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.