Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/275

Rh Strong-hearted winter knows and fears The music made of love at play, Or haply loves the tune he hears From hearts fulfilled with flowering May, Whose molten music thaws his ears Late frozen, deaf but yesterday To sounds of dying and dawning years, Now quickened on his deathward way.

For deathward now lies winter’s way Down the green vestibule of years That each year brightens day by day With flower and shower till hope scarce fears And fear grows wholly hope of May. But we—the music in our ears Made of love’s pulses as they play The heart alone that makes it hears.

The heart it is that plays and hears High salutation of to-day. Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears Its own unworthiness to play Fit music for those eight sweet years, Or sing their blithe accomplished way. No song quite worth a young child’s ears Broke ever even from birds in May.