Sonnet: To a child

Sweet is your antique body, not yet young;

Beauty withheld from youth that looks for youth;

Fair only for your father. Dear among

Masters in art. To all men else uncouth;

Save me, who know your smile comes very old,

Learnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods;

For earlier suns than ours have lent you gold;

Sly fauns and trees have given you jigs and nods.

But soon your heart, hot-beating like a bird's,

Shall slow down. Youth shall lop your hair;

And you must learn wry meanings in our words.

Your smile shall dull, because too keen aware;

And when for hopes your hand shall be uncurled,

Your eyes shall close, being open to the world.