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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341900" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Child's Battles</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Praise of the knights of old<br>May sleep: their tale is told,<br>And no man cares:<br>The praise which fires our lips is<br>A knight's whose fame eclipses<br>All of theirs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ruddiest light in heaven<br>Blazed as his birth-star seven<br>Long years ago:<br>All glory crown that old year<br>Which brought our stout small soldier<br>With the snow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Each baby born has one<br>Star, for his friends a sun,<br>The first of stars:<br>And we, the more we scan it,<br>The more grow sure your planet,<br>Child, was Mars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For each one flower, perchance,<br>Blooms as his cognizance:<br>The snowdrop chill,<br>The violet unbeholden,<br>For some: for you the golden<br>Daffodil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Erect, a fighting flower,<br>It breasts the breeziest hour<br>That ever blew,<br>And bent or broke things brittle<br>Or frail, unlike a little<br>Knight like you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Its flower is firm and fresh<br>And stout like sturdiest flesh<br>Of children: all<br>The strenuous blast that parches<br>Spring hurts it not till March is<br>Near his fall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If winds that prate and fret<br>Remark, rebuke, regret,<br>Lament, or blame<br>The brave plant's martial passion,<br>It keeps its own free fashion<br>All the same.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We that would fain seem wise<br>Assume grave mouths and eyes<br>Whose looks reprove<br>Too much delight in battle:<br>But your great heart our prattle<br>Cannot move.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We say, small children should<br>Be placid, mildly good<br>And blandly meek:<br>Whereat the broad smile rushes<br>Full on your lips, and flushes<br>All your cheek.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If all the stars that are<br>Laughed out, and every star<br>Could here be heard,<br>Such peals of golden laughter<br>We should not hear, as after<br>Such a word.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For all the storm saith, still,<br>Stout stands the daffodil:<br>For all we say,<br>Howe'er he look demurely,<br>Our martialist will surely<br>Have his way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We may not bind with bands<br>Those large and liberal hands,<br>Nor stay from fight,<br>Nor hold them back from giving:<br>No lean mean laws of living<br>Bind a knight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And always here of old<br>Such gentle hearts and bold<br>Our land has bred:<br>How durst her eye rest else on<br>The glory shed from Nelson<br>Quick and dead?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shame were it, if but one<br>Such once were born her son,<br>That one to have borne,<br>And brought him ne'er a brother:<br>His praise should bring his mother<br>Shame and scorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A child high-souled as he<br>Whose manhood shook the sea<br>Smiles haply here:<br>His face, where love lies baslcing,<br>With bright shut mouth seems asking,<br>What is fear?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sunshine-coloured fists<br>Beyond his dimpling wrists<br>Were never closed<br>For saving or for sparing--<br>For only deeds of daring<br>Predisposed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unclenched, the gracious hands<br>Let slip their gifts like sands<br>Made rich with ore<br>That tongues of beggars ravish<br>From small stout hands so lavish<br>Of their store.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet hardy kindly hands<br>Like these were his that stands<br>With heel on gorge<br>Seen trampling down the dragon<br>On sign or flask or flagon,<br>Sweet Saint George.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some tournament, perchance,<br>Of hands that couch no lance,<br>Might mark this spot<br>Your lists, if here some pleasant<br>Small Guenevere were present,<br>Launcelot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My brave bright flower, you need<br>No foolish song, nor heed<br>It more than spring<br>The sighs of winter stricken<br>Dead when your haunts requicken<br>Here, my king.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet O, how hardly may<br>The wheels of singing stay<br>That whirl along<br>Bright paths whence echo raises<br>The phantom of your praises,<br>Child, my song!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beyond all other things<br>That give my words fleet wings,<br>Fleet wings and strong,<br>You set their jesses ringing<br>Till hardly can I, singing,<br>Stint my song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But all things better, friend,<br>And worse must find an end:<br>And, right or wrong,<br>'Tis time, lest rhyme should baffle,<br>I doubt, to put a snaffle<br>On my song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And never may your ear<br>Aught harsher hear or fear,<br>Nor wolfish night<br>Nor dog-toothed winter snarling<br>Behind your steps, my darling,<br>My delight!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For all the gifts you give<br>Me, dear, each day you live,<br>Of thanks above<br>All thanks that could be spoken<br>Take not my song in token,<br>Take my love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Algernon+Charles+Swinburne">Algernon Charles Swinburne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341900" data-title="A Child's Battles de Algernon Charles Swinburne" data-description="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 c..."></div>
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