LOVE.
O Love, thou goodly child,
Though not its own, the World makes much of Thee!
Thou mindest me of him, from out the wild
Bulrushes drawn, and at a royal knee
Brought up with songs and nurtured tenderly.
Sweet songs are sung to thee, yet thou dost sing
Far sweeter back, because the mystic bee
Hives ever on thy lips, and Egypt's king
And courtiers, failing of thy company,
Would wearier grow of all their pageantry
Than infants of their toys that for the moon
Cry out. Yet thou thyself dost weary soon
Of Egypt's hollow show, and being grown
To thy full stature wilt no more disown
Thy country and thy brethren; thou wilt turn
To share their task-work, yet wilt not unlearn
The precious lore of Egypt; and the songs
That Pharaoh's daughter taught thee wilt recall
Full sweetly on thy harp of many strings—
Thou needest them, to plead thy people's wrongs
Thy Master yet may send thee before Kings!
Though not its own, the World makes much of Thee!
Thou mindest me of him, from out the wild
Bulrushes drawn, and at a royal knee
Brought up with songs and nurtured tenderly.
Sweet songs are sung to thee, yet thou dost sing
Far sweeter back, because the mystic bee
Hives ever on thy lips, and Egypt's king
And courtiers, failing of thy company,
Would wearier grow of all their pageantry
Than infants of their toys that for the moon
Cry out. Yet thou thyself dost weary soon
Of Egypt's hollow show, and being grown
To thy full stature wilt no more disown
Thy country and thy brethren; thou wilt turn
To share their task-work, yet wilt not unlearn
The precious lore of Egypt; and the songs
That Pharaoh's daughter taught thee wilt recall
Full sweetly on thy harp of many strings—
Thou needest them, to plead thy people's wrongs
Thy Master yet may send thee before Kings!
