Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/324

 and afar to-night my darling Lies, and heeds not the night, If winds be stirring or storms be snarling; For his sleep is its own sweet light.

I sit where he sat beside me quaffing The wine of story and song Poured forth of immortal cups, and laughing When mirth in the draught grew strong.

I broke the gold of the words, to melt it For hands but seven years old, And they caught the tale as a bird, and felt it More bright than visible gold.

And he drank down deep, with his eyes broad beaming, Here in this room where I am, The golden vintage of Shakespeare, gleaming In the silver vessels of Lamb.