A Childs Battles

Praise of the knights of old     May sleep: their tale is told,     And no man cares:     The praise which fires our lips is     A knights whose fame eclipses     All of theirs.     The ruddiest light in heaven     Blazed as his birth-star seven     Long years ago:     All glory crown that old year     Which brought our stout small soldier     With the snow!     Each baby born has one     Star, for his friends a sun,     The first of stars:     And we, the more we scan it,     The more grow sure your planet,     Child, was Mars.     For each one flower, perchance,     Blooms as his cognizance:     The snowdrop chill,     The violet unbeholden,     For some: for you the golden     Daffodil     Erect, a fighting flower,     It breasts the breeziest hour     That ever blew,     And bent or broke things brittle     Or frail, unlike a little     Knight like you.     Its flower is firm and fresh     And stout like sturdiest flesh     Of children: all     The strenuous blast that parches     Spring hurts it not till March is     Near his fall     If winds that prate and fret     Remark, rebuke, regret,     Lament, or blame     The brave plants martial passion,     It keeps its own free fashion     All the same.     We that would fain seem wise     Assume grave mouths and eyes     Whose looks reprove     Too much delight in battle:     But your great heart our prattle     Cannot move.     We say, small children should     Be placid, mildly good     And blandly meek:     Whereat the broad smile rushes     Full on your lips, and flushes     All your cheek.     If all the stars that are     Laughed out, and every star     Could here be heard,     Such peals of golden laughter     We should not hear, as after     Such a word.     For all the storm saith, still,     Stout stands the daffodil:     For all we say,     Howeer he look demurely,     Our martialist will surely     Have his way.     We may not bind with bands     Those large and liberal hands,     Nor stay from fight,     Nor hold them back from giving i     No lean mean laws of living     Bind a knight     And always here of old     Such gentle hearts and bold     Our land has bred:     How durst her eye rest else on     The glory shed from Nelson     Quick and dead?     Shame were it, if but one     Such once were born her son,     That one to have borne,     And brought him neer a brother:     His praise should bring his mother     Shame and scorn.     A child high-souled as he     Whose manhood shook the sea     Smiles haply here:     His face, where love lies basking,     With bright shut mouth seems asking,     What is fear?     The sunshine-coloured fists     Beyond his dimpling wrists     Were never closed     For saving or for sparing     For only deeds of daring     Predisposed     Unclenched, the gracious hands     Let slip their gifts like sands     Made rich with ore     That tongues of beggars ravish     From small stout hands so lavish     Of their store.     Sweet hardy kindly hands     Like these were his that stands     With heel on gorge     Seen trampling down the dragon     On sign or flask or flagon,     Sweet Saint George.     Some tournament, perchance,     Of hands that couch no lance,     Might mark this spot     Your lists, if here some pleasant     Small Guenevere were present,     Launcelot.     My brave bright flower, you need     No foolish song, nor heed     It more than spring     The sighs of winter stricken     Dead when your haunts requicken     Here, my king.     Yet O, how hardly may     The wheels of singing stay     That whirl along     Bright paths whence echo raises     The phantom of your praises,     Child, my song!     Beyond all other things     That give my words fleet wings,     Fleet wings and strong,     You set their jesses ringing     Till hardly can I, singing,     Stint my song.     But all things better, friend,     And worse must find an end:     And, right or wrong,     Tis time, lest rhyme should baffle,     I doubt, to put a snaffle     On my song.     And never may your ear     Aught harsher hear or fear,     Nor wolfish night     Nor dog-toothed winter snarling     Behind your steps, my darling     My delight!     For all the gifts you give     Me, dear, each day you live,     Of thanks above     All thanks that could be spoken     Take not my song in token,     Take my love.