O who can ever praise enough

O who can ever praise enough
The world of his belief?
Harum-scarum childhood plays
In the meadows near his home,
In his woods Love knows no wrong,
Travellers ride their placid ways,
In the cool shade of the tomb
Age’s trusting footfalls ring.
O who can paint the vivid tree
And grass of phantasy?

But to create it and to guard
Shall be his whole reward.
He shall watch and he shall weep,
All his father’s love deny,
To his mother’s womb be lost,
Eight nights with a wanton sleep,
But upon the ninth shall be
Bride and victim to a ghost,
And in the pit of terror thrown
Shall bear the wrath alone.