The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne In Six Volumes |
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The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne | ||
275
EIGHT YEARS OLD
I
Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter's ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II
What matters cloud or sun to-dayTo him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III
Strong-hearted winter knows and fearsThe music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
276
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV
For deathward now lies winter's wayDown the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love's pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V
The heart it is that plays and hearsHigh salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child's ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI
There beats not in the heart of May,When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
277
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII
Ah child, what are we, that our earsShould hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII
Yet we too triumph in the dayThat bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
February 4, 1882.
The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne | ||