Till all the days of human flight were fled.

And at his knees his fosterling was fed

Not with man's wine and bread

Nor mortal mother-milk of hopes and fears,

But food of deep memorial days long sped;

For bread with wisdom and with song for wine

Clear as the full calm's emerald hyaline.

And from his grave glad lips the boy would gather

Fine honey of song-notes goldener than gold,

More sweet than bees make of the breathing heather,

That he, as glad and bold,

Might drink as they, and keep his spirit from cold.

And the boy loved his laurel-laden hair

[Pg 297]

As his own father's risen on the eastern air,

And that less white brow-binding bayleaf bloom

More than all flowers his father's eyes relume;

And those high songs he heard,

More than all notes of any landward bird,

More than all sounds less free

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