Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/343

 And his hands are as sunny As ruddy ripe corn Or the browner-hued honey From heather-bells borne.

When summer sits proudest, Fulfilled with its mirth, And rapture is loudest In air and on earth,

The suns of all hours That have ripened the roots Bring forth not such flowers And beget not such fruits.

And well though I know it, As fain would I write, Child, never a poet Could praise you aright.

I bless you? the blessing Were less than a jest Too poor for expressing; I come to be blest,

With humble and dutiful Heart, from above: Bless me, O my beautiful Innocent love!