When the first larks began to soar,
⁠They left him wounded there;
Pity unlatched the sun-lit door,
⁠And smoothed his clotted hair.

But when the larks were still, before
⁠The mist began to rise,
'Twas Love that latched the star-lit door,
⁠And closed his dreamless eyes.

Those who were born so beautifully
Of straight-limbed men and white-browed, candid wives,
Now have walked out beyond where we can see;
Are full-grown men, with spent and splendid lives:
And these that only a little while ago
Without our help would stumble in steep places,
Need never our hands, stride proudly on, and so