With the glory thou hast won!

Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

He is harmless---ye are sinful,---

Pleasures, to make room for more---

On the ringlets which half screen thee,---

Throw them earthward where they grew.

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden

Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourse九*九*藏*書lves too weak?

Floweth outward with increase---

Bless the dimple in his cheek?

And the benediction speak?

While the young child dreameth on.

Now perhaps divinely holden,

Weary childhoods mandragore,

As the moths around a taper,

Dare ye look at one another,

Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace---and go in peace.

Softly, softly! make no noises!

Ama九九藏書ranths he looks unto---

Shapes of brightness overlean thee,---

Tis the child-heart draws them, singing

Round thee,---were the clouds away.

We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

Now he hears the angels voices

In a sweetness beyond tou九*九*藏*書ching---held in cloistral sanctities.

Vision unto vision calleth,

Nosegays! leave them for the waking:

Speak not! he is consecrated---

Lifted up and separated,

In the silent-seeming clay---

Swing against him in a wreath---

Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

We should see the spirits ringing

Breathe no breath across hisread.99csw.com eyes.

During slumber, shade by shade:

On the hand of God he lies,

To fine down this childish beauty

To the thing it must be made,

Dim are such, beside the breaking

Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some aethereal mouth.

Could ye bless him---father---mother ?

As the gnats around a vapour,---

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled th九_九_藏_書e day before.

As the bees around a rose,

Singing!---Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

Haply it is angels duty,

How he sleepeth! having drunken

From his slumber, virtue winful

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

Ye are troubled---he, at ease:

From the paths they sprang beneath,

Folding silence in the room---

Flash their diadems of youth

So the Spirits group and close

Now he lieth dead and dumb---