IF ALL the flowers of all the fields on earth
    By wonder-working summer were made one,
    Its fragrance were not sweeter in the sun,
Its treasure-house of leaves were not more worth
Than those wherefrom thy light of musing mirth
    Shone, till each leaf whereon thy pen would run
    Breathed life, and all its breath was benison.
Beloved beyond all names of English birth,
More dear than mightier memories; gentlest name
That ever clothed itself with flower-sweet fame,
Or linked itself with loftiest names of old
    By right and might of loving; I, that am
Less than the least of those within thy fold,
    Give only thanks for them to thee, Charles Lamb.

So many a year had borne its own bright bees
    And slain them since thy honey-bees were hived,
    John Day, in cells of flower-sweet verse contrived
So well with craft of moulding melodies,
Thy soul perchance in amaranth fields at ease
    Thought not to hear the sound on earth revived
    Of summer music from the spring derived
When thy song sucked the flower of flowering trees
But thine was not the chance of every day:
    Time, after many a darkling hour, grew sunny,
        And light between the clouds ere sunset swam,
Laughing, and kissed their darkness all away,
    When, touched and tasted and approved, thy honey
        Took subtler sweetness from the lips of Lamb.