YOUR bays shall all men bring,
And flowers the children strew you.
Once, as I stood in a thick west wood,
I took from a fissure a precious thing,
The homage whereof be to you!
A thing pearl-pale, yet stung
With fire, as the morning’s beam is;
Hid underground thro’ a solar round,
Hardy and fragile, antique and young,
More exquisite than a dream is.
No rose had so bright birth;
No gem of romance surpassed it,
By a minstrel-knight, for his maid’s delight,
Borne from the moon-burnt marge of the earth,
Where Paynim breakers cast it.
Rude-named, memorial, quaint,
The dews and the darkness mould it:
Scarce twice in an age is our heritage
This glory and mystery without taint.
Dear Stevenson, do you hold it
A text of grace, ah! much
Beyond what the praising throng say:
Only your art is its peer at heart,
Only your touch is a wonder such,
My wild little loving song says!