BARTHELEMON AT VAUXHALL

He said: “Awake my soul, and with the sun,”...

And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east,

Where was emerging like a full-robed priest

The irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done.

It lit his face — the weary face of one

Who in the adjacent gardens charged his string,

Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing,

Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun.

And then were threads of matin music spun

In trial tones as he pursued his way:

“This is a morn,” he murmured, “well begun:

This strain to Ken will count when I am clay!”

And count it did; till, caught by echoing lyres,

It spread to galleried naves and mighty quires.