A Child's Battles

    by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Praise of the knights of old 
May sleep: their tale is told, 
And no man cares: 
The praise which fires our lips is 
A knight's whose fame eclipses 
All of theirs.


The ruddiest light in heaven 
Blazed as his birth-star seven 
Long years ago: 
All glory crown that old year 
Which brought our stout small soldier 
With the snow!


Each baby born has one 
Star, for his friends a sun, 
The first of stars: 
And we, the more we scan it, 
The more grow sure your planet, 
Child, was Mars.


For each one flower, perchance, 
Blooms as his cognizance: 
The snowdrop chill, 
The violet unbeholden, 
For some: for you the golden 
Daffodil.


Erect, a fighting flower, 
It breasts the breeziest hour 
That ever blew, 
And bent or broke things brittle 
Or frail, unlike a little 
Knight like you.


Its flower is firm and fresh 
And stout like sturdiest flesh 
Of children: all 
The strenuous blast that parches 
Spring hurts it not till March is 
Near his fall.


If winds that prate and fret 
Remark, rebuke, regret, 
Lament, or blame 
The brave plant's martial passion, 
It keeps its own free fashion 
All the same.


We that would fain seem wise 
Assume grave mouths and eyes 
Whose looks reprove 
Too much delight in battle: 
But your great heart our prattle 
Cannot move.


We say, small children should 
Be placid, mildly good 
And blandly meek: 
Whereat the broad smile rushes 
Full on your lips, and flushes 
All your cheek.


If all the stars that are 
Laughed out, and every star 
Could here be heard, 
Such peals of golden laughter 
We should not hear, as after 
Such a word.


For all the storm saith, still, 
Stout stands the daffodil: 
For all we say, 
Howe'er he look demurely, 
Our martialist will surely 
Have his way.


We may not bind with bands 
Those large and liberal hands, 
Nor stay from fight, 
Nor hold them back from giving: 
No lean mean laws of living 
Bind a knight.


And always here of old 
Such gentle hearts and bold 
Our land has bred: 
How durst her eye rest else on 
The glory shed from Nelson 
Quick and dead?


Shame were it, if but one 
Such once were born her son, 
That one to have borne, 
And brought him ne'er a brother: 
His praise should bring his mother 
Shame and scorn.


A child high-souled as he 
Whose manhood shook the sea 
Smiles haply here: 
His face, where love lies basking, 
With bright shut mouth seems asking, 
What is fear?


The sunshine-colored fists 
Beyond his dimpling wrists 
Were never closed 
For saving or for sparing -- 
For only deeds of daring 
Predisposed.


Unclenched, the gracious hands 
Let slip their gifts like sands 
Made rich with ore 
That tongues of beggars ravish 
From small stout hands so lavish 
Of their store.


Sweet hardy kindly hands 
Like these were his that stands 
With heel on gorge 
Seen trampling down the dragon 
On sign or flask or flagon, 
Sweet Saint George.


Some tournament, perchance, 
Of hands that couch no lance, 
Might mark this spot 
Your lists, if here some pleasant 
Small Guenevere were present, 
Launcelot.


My brave bright flower, you need 
No foolish song, nor heed 
It more than spring 
The sighs of winter stricken 
Dead when your haunts requicken 
Here, my king.


Yet O, how hardly may 
The wheels of singing stay 
That whirl along 
Bright paths whence echo raises 
The phantom of your praises, 
Child, my song!


Beyond all other things 
That give my words fleet wings, 
Fleet wings and strong, 
You set their jesses ringing 
Till hardly can I, singing, 
Stint my song.


But all things better, friend, 
And worse must find an end: 
And, right or wrong, 
'Tis time, lest rhyme should baffle, 
I doubt, to put a snaffle 
On my song.


And never may your ear 
Aught harsher hear or fear, 
Nor wolfish night 
Nor dog-toothed winter snarling 
Behind your steps, my darling, 
My delight!


For all the gifts you give 
Me, dear, each day you live, 
Of thanks above 
All thanks that could be spoken 
Take not my song in token, 


Take my love.