 | Lyrical Poems |  |
1
A BIRTHDAY
I
I love to think, when first I wokeInto this wondrous world,
The leaves were fresh on elm and oak,
And hawthorns laced and pearled.
II
The earliest sound that greeted me,Was the ousel's ringing tone;
The earliest sight, lambs frisking free
Round barked oaks newly thrown.
III
The gray-green elder whitened slowAs in my crib I slept;
And merles to wonder stilled my woe,
When I awoke and wept.
2
IV
When held up to the window pane,What fixed my baby stare?
The glory of the glittering rain,
And newness everywhere.
V
The doe was followed by her fawn;The swan built in the reeds:
A something whitened all the lawn,
And yellowed all the meads.
VI
And thus it must have been I gainedThe vernal need to sing,
And, while a suckling, blindly drained
The instinct of the Spring.
VII
The cuckoo taught me how to laugh,The nightingale to mourn:
The poet is half grief, and half
The soul of mirth and scorn.
VIII
My lullaby, the bees astirWherever sweetness dwells;
The dogwood and laburnum were
My coral and my bells.
3
IX
My virgin sense of sound was steepedIn the music of young streams;
And roses through the casement peeped,
And scented all my dreams.
X
And so it is that still to-dayI cannot choose but sing,
Remain a foster-child of May,
And a suckling of the Spring:
XI
That to Nurse-Nature's voice and touchI shape my babbling speech,
And still stretch feeble hands to clutch
Something beyond my reach:
XII
That in my song you catch at timesNote sweeter far than mine,
And in the tangle of my rhymes
Can scent the eglantine;
XIII
That though my verse but roam the airAnd murmur in the trees,
You may discern a purpose there,
As in music of the bees.
4
XIV
Hence too it is, from wintry tombWhen earth revives, and when
A quickening comes to Nature's womb,
That I am born again.
XV
I feel no more the snow of years;Sap mounts, and pulses bound;
My eyes are filled with happy tears,
My ears with happy sound.
XVI
Anew I listen to the lowFond cooing of the dove,
And smile unto myself to know
I still am loved and love.
XVII
My manhood keeps the dew of morn,And what I have I give;
Being right glad that I was born,
And thankful that I live.
May 30, 1884.
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