 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
49
A BIRTHDAY.
Now when the landscape lies all hushed and stilly
Beneath the cold gray sky and shrouding snow,
Dawns the dim birthday, shadowy and chilly,
Of my sweet winter-child—my rare white lily,
Loved all too well, and lost so long ago.
Beneath the cold gray sky and shrouding snow,
Dawns the dim birthday, shadowy and chilly,
Of my sweet winter-child—my rare white lily,
Loved all too well, and lost so long ago.
Sometimes I marvel, dazed by doubt and distance,
Whether she was a mortal baby fair
Or some more glorified and pure existence
Lent for a little—a divine assistance
To help me over uttermost despair.
Whether she was a mortal baby fair
Or some more glorified and pure existence
Lent for a little—a divine assistance
To help me over uttermost despair.
I bring to other birthdays kiss and token,
And loving wishes crowding fond and fast—
To this I only bring a woe unspoken,
Bitter rebellious tears, a heart half broken,
Bruising itself against the cruel past.
And loving wishes crowding fond and fast—
To this I only bring a woe unspoken,
Bitter rebellious tears, a heart half broken,
Bruising itself against the cruel past.
Year after year I think of her as older,
And muse upon her growth, and softly speak;
Now without stooping I could clasp and hold her,—
And now her golden head would reach my shoulder,—
And now her sweet white brow would touch my cheek.
And muse upon her growth, and softly speak;
Now without stooping I could clasp and hold her,—
50
And now her sweet white brow would touch my cheek.
Would earthly years have had the power to render
That holy face less innocent and fair?
And those clear eyes, so luminous and tender,
Would they have kept undimmed their depths of splendor,
Amid these heavy clouds of grief and care?
That holy face less innocent and fair?
And those clear eyes, so luminous and tender,
Would they have kept undimmed their depths of splendor,
Amid these heavy clouds of grief and care?
I wonder, when I see my locks grown duller
By blighting years, and streaked with silvery strands,
If her bright hair has still the sun-warm color
It wore when on my breast I used to lull her,
Smoothing its shining waves with loving hands.
By blighting years, and streaked with silvery strands,
If her bright hair has still the sun-warm color
It wore when on my breast I used to lull her,
Smoothing its shining waves with loving hands.
While time has aged and saddened me so greatly,
Has she outgrown each changing childish mood?
By the still waters does she walk sedately
A tall and radiant spirit, fair and stately,
In the full prime of perfect angelhood?
Has she outgrown each changing childish mood?
By the still waters does she walk sedately
A tall and radiant spirit, fair and stately,
In the full prime of perfect angelhood?
In that far dwelling, where I cannot reach her,
Has she who was so fragile and so sweet,—
An untaught babe, a tender little creature,—
Grown wise enough to be my guide and teacher,
And will her presence awe me when we meet?
Has she who was so fragile and so sweet,—
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Grown wise enough to be my guide and teacher,
And will her presence awe me when we meet?
Oh, if her baby face has waxed no older,
Or if to angel stature she has grown—
Whether as child or woman I behold her,
With what wild rapture will these arms enfold her—
This longing heart reclaim her for its own!
Or if to angel stature she has grown—
Whether as child or woman I behold her,
With what wild rapture will these arms enfold her—
This longing heart reclaim her for its own!
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