THE LARKS are loud above our leagues of whin <br />Now the sun’s perfume fills their glorious gold <br />With odour like the colour: all the wold <br />Is only light and song and wind wherein <br />These twain are blent in one with shining din. <br />And now your gift, a giver’s kingly-souled, <br />Dear old fast friend whose honours grow not old, <br />Bids memory’s note as loud and sweet begin. <br />Though all but we from life be now gone forth <br />Of that bright household in our joyous north <br />Where I, scarce clear of boyhood just at end, <br />First met your hand; yet under life’s clear dome, <br />Now seventy strenuous years have crowned my friend, <br />Shines no less bright his full-sheaved harvest-home.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-william-bell-scott/
