For want of a small child's breath.

357 XXV

357

Whiter and whiter

The dark lines grow,

And broader opens and brighter

The sense of the text below.

Nightfall and morrow

Bring nigher the boy

Whom wanting we want not sorrow,

Whom having we want no joy.

Clearer and clearer

The sweet sense grows

Of the word which hath summer for hearer,

The word on the lips of the rose.

Duskily dwindles

Each deathlike day,

Till June rearising rekindles

The depth of the darkness of May.

358 XXVI

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