Though life has stooped before its height,

And beauty, that I still shall trust,

The child of a diviner light

Be torn, and lower than the dust,

Love has a life beyond the heat

Of sorrow, pain, desire or dread;

He holds as his eternal seat

The great remembrance of the dead.

They lose no splendour by decay;

They are a fixed immortal power,

And I their lover, though I stay

Surrounded by the dying hour.

And now thy beauty, as that fire

Which walks against the morning, bears

Of day and night one great desire,

Has made life's splendour one with theirs.

They live; I see them in thine eyes;

Thy life is theirs; no death can stem

Their torrent. When I watch it rise,

I love thee, as I worship them.

I would to God thou wert mine own good son

Thy face is fair, thy body strong and pure,

Thy spirit nobly high, thy deeds well done,

Thy heart well set to love and to endure.

'Tis such a fearless boy I would beget,

To give the venerable world its due;

Yea, to be bold and lovely ere I set,

To take the time, and mould what shall ensue.

I would thou wert the fruit of my best hour,

So that I might bequeathe thee my strong fire;

But I am like to die before my flower

And lose inheritors for my desire.

O if thou wert mine own, I had this boast;

Therefore I love thee better than thou know'st.