Now I shall turn to another part of the poet's work. Here is a little verse about a grown man looking at the picture of himself when he was a little child. I think that it is a very charming sonnet, and it will give you something to think about. A man that sees by chance his picture, made As once a child he was, handling some toy, Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy, Yet hath no secret with the soul portray'd: He cannot think the simple thought which play'd Upon those features then so frank and coy; 'Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o'er the joy His fatherly pity bends in tears dismay'd. There is indeed no topic which Robert Bridges has treated more exquisitely and touchingly than certain phases of childhood, the poetry of childhood, the purity of childhood, the pathos of childhood. I do not think that any one except Patmore, and Patmore only in one poem, "The Toys," has even approached him. Take this little poem for example, on the death of a little boy. It is the father who is speaking. ON A DEAD CHILD Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride;--ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed;-- Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. So quiet!--doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us!