Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/288

270 Too much delight in battle: But your great heart our prattle Cannot move.

We say, small children should Be placid, mildly good And blandly meek: Whereat the broad smile rushes Full on your lips, and flushes All your cheek.

If all the stars that are Laughed out, and every star Could here be heard, Such peals of golden laughter We should not hear, as after Such a word.

For all the storm saith, still, Stout stands the daffodil: For all we say, Howe’er he look demurely, Our martialist will surely Have his way.

We may not bind with bands Those large and liberal hands, Nor stay from fight, Nor hold them back from giving: No lean mean laws of living Bind a knight