Here is a rough Rude sketch of my friend, Faint-coloured enough And unworthily penned.
Fearlessly fair And triumphant he stands, And holds unaware Friends’ hearts in his hands;
Stalwart and straight As an oak that should bring Forth gallant and great Fresh roses in spring.
On the paths of his pleasure All graces that wait What metre shall measure What rhyme shall relate
Each action, each motion, Each feature, each limb, Demands a devotion In honour of him:
Head that the hand Of a god might have blest, Laid lustrous and bland On the curve of its crest:
Mouth sweeter than cherries, Keen eyes as of Mars, Browner than berries And brighter than stars.
Nor colour nor wordy Weak song can declare The stature how sturdy, How stalwart his air.
As a king in his bright Presence-chamber may be, So seems he in height — Twice higher than your knee.
As a warrior sedate With reserve of his power, So seems he in state — 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.
When summer sits proudest, 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, 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.
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