Page:Posthumous poems (IA posthumousswinb00swin).pdf/146

And I would make them quiet; ah! but now
I cannot reach your lips—not so! alas,
And then they shiver and curl sideways, see,
And your eyes cry too,
 Con.There—sit gravelier now!
Nay, child, you twist my finger in the ring.
 Fred. I wonder if God means to leave us so?
If he forget us, and my father die,
How well that were for you! dear mother, think
How we would praise him!
 Con.Child, no words of it,
Let us forget him. Come, I'll spoil a tale,
With idle remembrance. There was a king once
Lived where the trees are great and green, with leaves
The white midwinter keeps alive; there grew
All red fruit and all flowers full of gold
In the broad low grasses: from the poppy-root
Came lilies, and from lily-stems there clomb
Tall roses, with close petals, and the stalk
Was heavy gold, solid and smooth, the wind
Was full of soft rain gathered in the dusk
That fell with no clouds near; so this king
Grew past a child.
 Fred.Taller than I? so tall?
 Con. Ay, where the sun divides the olive-shade;
And on his head——— Rise, here are men, I think.

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