The loveliest thing to me is sunlight over the grass
Blown into eddies of gold, and the wax-white petals falling;
Yet it requireth man that the blades of the shears shall pass
Nor is there hint of lack in the blackbirdís calling.
And the loveliest note of old was the trumpetís, blown in the lists;
Yet a horse might slip, and the desperate challenger fail,
To see once more, as he lay, the blue in his ladyís wrists.
Neither for this had the jousts grown silent and pale.
But a lovelier thing than both is a young heart, suddenly shaken
By trumpets of honour, shining petals of love;
Yet, if it prove too rash, and be at the last forsaken,
This shall be less to men than red leaves swirling above