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!

This rhyme in your praise

With a smile was begun;

But the goal of his ways

Is uncovered to none,

Nor pervious till after

The limit impend;

It is not in laughter

These rhymes of you end.

342 XIV

342

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