To tend from heaven, to rear, to harden,

And bring to bloom in the outer cold,

Our daffodil bud of a walled-in garden,

Our son that is like you, and six years old;

And lest his worth be the worth unreal,

To ward him not from the mortal blast,

But suffer your own, through a long ordeal,

Verily like you to be at the last,

And hear men murmur, if so he merit

In your old place with your look to arise:

You have earned, O King! those beautiful eyes.”