Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

* * *

Pale are the words I build for my delight
To house in; pale as the chill mist that holds
An ardent morn. My fire to others' sight
But dimly burns through the frail speech it moulds;
I cast but shadows from my inward light.
But, O my Joy, thou understandest well
Both what I can and what I cannot tell.

1. One Year Old
2. Now That I Have Won
3. O World, Be Nobler
4. The Way Home
5. As in the Dusty Lane to Fern or Flower

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