  A little wrath was on thy forehead, Boy, Being thus defeated; the resolvÈd will Which death could not subdue, was threatening still From lip and brow. I know that it was joy No casual misadventure might destroy To have lived, and fought and died. Therefore I kill The pang for thee, unknown; nor count it ill That thou hast entered swiftly on employ Where Life would plant a warder keen and pure. I thought to see a little piteous clay The grave had need of, pale from light obscure Of embryo dreams; thy face was as the day Smit on by storm. Palms for my child, and bay! Thus far thou hast done well, true son: endure. |
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