How
he
sleepeth!
having
drunken
Weary
childhood's
mandragore,
From
his
pretty
eyes
have
sunken
Pleasures,
to
make
room
for
more—-
Sleeping
near
the
withered
nosegay,
which
he
pulled
the
day
before.
Nosegays!
leave
them
for
the
waking:
Throw
them
earthward
where
they
grew.
Dim
are
such,
beside
the
breaking
Amaranths
he
looks
unto—-
Folded
eyes
see
brighter
colours
than
the
open
ever
do.
Heaven-flowers,
rayed
by
shadows
golden
From
the
paths
they
sprang
beneath,
Now
perhaps
divinely
holden,
Swing
against
him
in
a
wreath—-
We
may
think
so
from
the
quickening
of
his
bloom
and
of
his
breath.
Vision
unto
vision
calleth,
While
the
young
child
dreameth
on.
Fair,
O
dreamer,
thee
befalleth
With
the
glory
thou
hast
won!
Darker
wert
thou
in
the
garden,
yestermorn,
by
summer
sun.
We
should
see
the
spirits
ringing
Round
thee,—-were
the
clouds
away.
'Tis
the
child-heart
draws
them,
singing
In
the
silent-seeming
clay—-
Singing!—-Stars
that
seem
the
mutest,
go
in
music
all
the
way.
As
the
moths
around
a
taper,
As
the
bees
around
a
rose,
As
the
gnats
around
a
vapour,—-
So
the
Spirits
group
and
close
Round
about
a
holy
childhood,
as
if
drinking
its
repose.
Shapes
of
brightness
overlean
thee,—-
Flash
their
diadems
of
youth
On
the
ringlets
which
half
screen
thee,—-
While
thou
smilest,
.
.
.
not
in
sooth
Thy
smile
.
.
.
but
the
overfair
one,
dropt
from
some
aethereal
mouth.
Haply
it
is
angels'
duty,
During
slumber,
shade
by
shade:
To
fine
down
this
childish
beauty
To
the
thing
it
must
be
made,
Ere
the
world
shall
bring
it
praises,
or
the
tomb
shall
see
it
fade.
Softly,
softly!
make
no
noises!
Now
he
lieth
dead
and
dumb—-
Now
he
hears
the
angels'
voices
Folding
silence
in
the
room—-
Now
he
muses
deep
the
meaning
of
the
Heaven-words
as
they
come.
Speak
not!
he
is
consecrated—-
Breathe
no
breath
across
his
eyes.
Lifted
up
and
separated,
On
the
hand
of
God
he
lies,
In
a
sweetness
beyond
touching—-held
in
cloistral
sanctities.
Could
ye
bless
him—-father—-mother
?
Bless
the
dimple
in
his
cheek?
Dare
ye
look
at
one
another,
And
the
benediction
speak?
Would
ye
not
break
out
in
weeping,
and
confess
yourselves
too
weak?
He
is
harmless—-ye
are
sinful,—-
Ye
are
troubled—-he,
at
ease:
From
his
slumber,
virtue
winful
Floweth
outward
with
increase—-
Dare
not
bless
him!
but
be
blessed
by
his
peace—-and
go
in
peace.
