As tall as a flower:

As a rose overtowering

The ranks of the rest

That beneath it lie cowering,

Less bright than their best.

And his hands are as sunny

As ruddy ripe corn

Or the browner-hued honey

From heather-bells borne.

341 When summer sits proudest,

341

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,

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