II

So many a year had borne its own bright bees And slain them since thy honey-bees were hived, John Day, in cells of flower-sweet verse contrived So well with craft of moulding melodies, Thy soul perchance in amaranth fields at ease Thought not to hear the sound on earth revived Of summer music from the spring derived When thy song sucked the flower of flowering trees. But thine was not the chance of every day: Time, after many a darkling hour, grew sunny, And light between the clouds ere sunset swam, Laughing, and kissed their darkness all away, When, touched and tasted and approved, thy honey Took subtler sweetness from the lips of Lamb.