 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
38
SUMMER'S CALL TO THE LITTLE ORPHAN.
“Viens j'ai des fruits d'or, j'ai des roses;
J'en remplirai tes petits bras.”
Victor Hugo.
J'en remplirai tes petits bras.”
Victor Hugo.
The summer skies are darkly blue,
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of Night.
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of Night.
Then, when the little orphan wakes,
A low voice whispers, “Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.
A low voice whispers, “Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.
“Beneath my vaulted, azure dome,
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.
“I'll fill thy little longing arms
With fruits and wilding flowers;
I'll tell thee tales of fairy-land
In the long twilight hours.”
With fruits and wilding flowers;
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In the long twilight hours.”
The orphan hears that wooing voice;
Awhile he softly broods,—
Then hastens down the sunny slopes,
Into the twilight woods.
Awhile he softly broods,—
Then hastens down the sunny slopes,
Into the twilight woods.
The waving branches murmur
Strange secrets in his ear,
But the nodding flowers welcome him,
And whisper, “Never fear.”
Strange secrets in his ear,
But the nodding flowers welcome him,
And whisper, “Never fear.”
He sees the squirrel peeping
From the coverts cool and dim,
And the water-lilies sleeping
Along the fountain's brim.
From the coverts cool and dim,
And the water-lilies sleeping
Along the fountain's brim.
He hears the wild bee humming
In the roses by the rill;
He nestles in the hollow tree,
He clambers up the hill.
In the roses by the rill;
He nestles in the hollow tree,
He clambers up the hill.
He weaves a little basket
From the willow as he goes,
And he heaps it up with blackberries,
And blueberries, and sloes.
From the willow as he goes,
And he heaps it up with blackberries,
And blueberries, and sloes.
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The brook stays him, at the crossing,
In its waters cool and sweet,
And the pebbles leap around him,
And frolic at his feet.
In its waters cool and sweet,
And the pebbles leap around him,
And frolic at his feet.
Half fearfully, half joyfully,
He treads the forest dim,
Till he hears the wood-birds chaunting
Their holy, sylvan hymn.
He treads the forest dim,
Till he hears the wood-birds chaunting
Their holy, sylvan hymn.
Then, in the cool of eventide,
The Father's voice he hears,
As men heard it in the Eden
Of Earth's paradisal years.
The Father's voice he hears,
As men heard it in the Eden
Of Earth's paradisal years.
The redbird furls her shining wing,
The squirrel seeks his lair;
The flowers, folding up their leaves,
Incline their heads in prayer.
The squirrel seeks his lair;
The flowers, folding up their leaves,
Incline their heads in prayer.
The orphan feels a brooding calm
O'er all his senses creep;
And, by the little ground-bird's nest,
He lays him down to sleep.
O'er all his senses creep;
And, by the little ground-bird's nest,
He lays him down to sleep.
The Moon comes gliding through the trees,
And softly stoops to spread
Her dainty silver kirtle
Upon his grassy bed.
And softly stoops to spread
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Upon his grassy bed.
The drowsy Night-wind murmuring
Its quaint old tunes the while;
Till Morning wakes him with a song,
And greets him with a smile.
Its quaint old tunes the while;
Till Morning wakes him with a song,
And greets him with a smile.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |