XVII

The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,

On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:

But trulier had it given the truth

To shape him like a child.

No face full-grown of all our dearest

So lightens all our darkness, none

Most loved of all our hearts hold nearest

To far outshines the sun,

As when with sly shy smiles that feign

Doubt if the hour be clear, the time

Fit to break off my work again

Or sport of prose or rhyme,

My friend peers in on me with merry

Wise face, and though the sky stay dim

The very light of day, the very

Sun's self comes in with him.