A lad, his life not quarter-done,
Lies quiet in the puzzled sun.
She's stroked his limbs, she's kissed his eyes:
But lids, tho' kissed, disdain to rise,
And limbs, tho' stroked, to flex and bow
The sleep away that thralls him now.
O gladsome, golden, gorgeous star,
I wot thou knowest naught of war!
Canst thou not see the wounds that gape?
Wet rents wherethrough red Mars did rape
The breath that blew within this boy
With phthisic care or fluent joy?
Sweet sun, thy warmth may work no spell,
Rescind no ill of what was well;
No breath restore, nor e'er restart
The rhythmic folly of his heart.