III

Asleep and afar to-night my darling Lies, and heeds not the night, If winds be stirring or storms be snarling; For his sleep is its own sweet light.

I sit where he sat beside me quaffing The wine of story and song Poured forth of immortal cups, and laughing When mirth in the draught grew strong.

I broke the gold of the words, to melt it For hands but seven years old, And they caught the tale as a bird, and felt it More bright than visible gold.

And he drank down deep, with his eyes broad beaming, Here in this room where I am, The golden vintage of Shakespeare, gleaming In the silver vessels of Lamb.

Here by my hearth where he was I listen For the shade of the sound of a word, Athirst for the birdlike eyes to glisten, For the tongue to chirp like a bird.

At the blast of battle, how broad they brightened, Like fire in the spheres of stars, And clung to the pictured page, and lightened As keen as the heart of Mars!

At the touch of laughter, how swift it twittered The shrillest music on earth; How the lithe limbs laughed and the whole child glittered With radiant riot of mirth!

Our Shakespeare now, as a man dumb-stricken, Stands silent there on the shelf: And my thoughts, that had song in the heart of them, sicken, And relish not Shakespeare's self.

And my mood grows moodier than Hamlet's even, And man delights not me, But only the face that morn and even My heart leapt only to see.

That my heart made merry within me seeing, And sang as his laugh kept time: But song finds now no pleasure in being, And love no reason in rhyme.