The wood with its cold flowers had nothing there
More beautiful than he, new waked from sleep,
New born from joy. His soul lay very bare
That moment to life’s touch, and pondering deep
Now first he knew that no desire could keep
These hours for always, and that me do die
—But oh, the present glory of lungs and eye!
From Narrative Poems
Narrative Poems. Copyright © 1969 by C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Preface copyright © 1969 by Walter Hooper. All rights reserved. Used with permission of HarperCollins Publishers.