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.