Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton collected and arranged by H. Augusta Dodge |
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BIRTHDAYS |
 | Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton |  |
BIRTHDAYS
One, two, three—A witch of a baby—She!
Four, five—the sturdiest, doughtiest, poutingest, floutingest, wittiest, prettiest, sparklingest, darklingest damsel alive.
Stormful and starful—seven, eight—
Star-glow deepens and storms abate.
Nine, ten—beloved of maidens, besought of men—
Wilful and winsome still, I wis;
But, Faint-Heart and Fear-Heart, tell me this:
How had the changeling
Become an angeling—
Care-taking, love-making,
What breath had kissed her
The little sprite mocking the little imp shocking,
Into a warm, wise, mother-sister;
Loyal in stress, playing in trial
Heaven's own rôle of self-denial!
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,—weaving the robe she shall pay her court in—
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—roaming two worlds she shall find her fate in—
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—the bud has opened, the Summer begun—
Twenty-two—He sings—but afar, as the Angels do!
Twenty-three—and the spell of his singing falls even on me!
Twenty-four—is there more?
Is it love? it is doubt—it is naught—it is all—
It is freedom perfected through absolute thrall!
Twenty-five—scarce alive to the power of the dower
Of her great soul's most grave and magnificent hour,
She fronts the veiled future. Fare forth without fear
In a world that has love for its running gear!
Bringing order, or patience, or rapture, or pain,
Love alone, in Earth's turmoil, can hold the heart sane.
To be loved—or loved not—is as Heaven may send—
To love is the true Divine—world without end.
Four, five—the sturdiest, doughtiest, poutingest, floutingest, wittiest, prettiest, sparklingest, darklingest damsel alive.
Stormful and starful—seven, eight—
Star-glow deepens and storms abate.
Nine, ten—beloved of maidens, besought of men—
Wilful and winsome still, I wis;
But, Faint-Heart and Fear-Heart, tell me this:
How had the changeling
Become an angeling—
Care-taking, love-making,
What breath had kissed her
The little sprite mocking the little imp shocking,
218
Loyal in stress, playing in trial
Heaven's own rôle of self-denial!
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,—weaving the robe she shall pay her court in—
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—roaming two worlds she shall find her fate in—
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—the bud has opened, the Summer begun—
Twenty-two—He sings—but afar, as the Angels do!
Twenty-three—and the spell of his singing falls even on me!
Twenty-four—is there more?
Is it love? it is doubt—it is naught—it is all—
It is freedom perfected through absolute thrall!
Twenty-five—scarce alive to the power of the dower
Of her great soul's most grave and magnificent hour,
She fronts the veiled future. Fare forth without fear
In a world that has love for its running gear!
Bringing order, or patience, or rapture, or pain,
Love alone, in Earth's turmoil, can hold the heart sane.
To be loved—or loved not—is as Heaven may send—
To love is the true Divine—world without end.
Full clear and quaint and in solemn rhyme
Sang the sweet saint of olden time:
“All that we know of Saints above
Is that they sing and that they love.”
And thus we share with that dear pair
Whose memory lingers everywhere,
For well we know of saints below
Or smooth or rough the paths they trod
No higher bliss than this:
He who loves best is likest God.
Sang the sweet saint of olden time:
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Is that they sing and that they love.”
And thus we share with that dear pair
Whose memory lingers everywhere,
For well we know of saints below
Or smooth or rough the paths they trod
No higher bliss than this:
He who loves best is likest God.
| Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton | |