I. <br /> <br />IF ALL the flowers of all the fields on earth <br />By wonder-working summer were made one, <br />Its fragrance were not sweeter in the sun, <br />Its treasure-house of leaves were not more worth <br />Than those wherefrom thy light of musing mirth <br />Shone, till each leaf whereon thy pen would run <br />Breathed life, and all its breath was benison. <br />Beloved beyond all names of English birth, <br />More dear than mightier memories; gentlest name <br />That ever clothed itself with flower-sweet fame, <br />Or linked itself with loftiest names of old <br />By right and might of loving; I, that am <br />Less than the least of those within thy fold, <br />Give only thanks for them to thee, Charles Lamb. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />So many a year had borne its own bright bees <br />And slain them since thy honey-bees were hived, <br />John Day, in cells of flower-sweet verse contrived <br />So well with craft of moulding melodies, <br />Thy soul perchance in amaranth fields at ease <br />Thought not to hear the sound on earth revived <br />Of summer music from the spring derived <br />When thy song sucked the flower of flowering trees <br />But thine was not the chance of every day: <br />Time, after many a darkling hour, grew sunny, <br />And light between the clouds ere sunset swam, <br />Laughing, and kissed their darkness all away, <br />When, touched and tasted and approved, thy honey <br />Took subtler sweetness from the lips of Lamb.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-lamb-s-specimens-of-dramatic-poets-sonnets/
