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.