And I, grown grey, shall wish you well, and see
Myself imprinted as but she could know
To make amendment so.

I see you then, your sixteen years alight
With limbs all true and golden hair,
And you, unborn, I will, this April night,
Tell of the faith and honour you must wear
For love, whose light you bear.

Beauty you have; as, mothered so, could face
Or limbs or hair be otherwise?
Years gone, dear boy, there was a virgin grace
Worth Homer's laurel under western skies
To wander and devise.

Beauty you have. Cherish it as divine,
Wash it with dews of diligence,
Not vainly, but because it is the sign
Of inward light, the spirit's excellence
Made visible to sense.

Athlete be you; strong runner to the goal,
Glad though the game be lost or won:
Fleet limbs that chronicle a fleeter soul,
In every winter valiantly to run,
Till the last race be done.

Love wisdom that is suited in a rhyme,
And be in all your learning known