TO WILLIAM BELL SCOTT

The larks are loud above our leagues of whin

Now the sun's perfume fills their glorious gold

With odour like the colour: all the wold

Is only light and song and wind wherein

These twain are blent in one with shining din.

And now your gift, a giver's kingly-souled,

Dear old fast friend whose honours grow not old,

Bids memory's note as loud and sweet begin.

Though all but we from life be now gone forth

Of that bright household in our joyous north

Where I, scarce clear of boyhood just at end,

First met your hand; yet under life's clear dome,

Now seventy strenuous years have crowned my friend,

Shines no less bright his full-sheaved harvest-home.