 | English Roses |  |
473
INFANCY.
Thou art outside this fretting world of woe
Wherein we helpless sink,
And playest on the brink
Untouched by fortune and unharmed by foe;
O dweller not in time with care and crime,
To whom our toil and trouble
Which thought makes dark and double
Are but the echo of a distant chime;
On thine authentic ear
Breaks never pulse of fear,
And those pure feet that flutter as they fly
Wash in the waters of Eternity.
Wherein we helpless sink,
And playest on the brink
Untouched by fortune and unharmed by foe;
O dweller not in time with care and crime,
To whom our toil and trouble
Which thought makes dark and double
Are but the echo of a distant chime;
On thine authentic ear
Breaks never pulse of fear,
And those pure feet that flutter as they fly
Wash in the waters of Eternity.
Thou art above the tumult and the strife
Through which we hardly strain,
And babblement of pain
Or pleasure mixes not with that far life;
We suffer and we sin and fall therein
To rise yet with the morrow,
But past the reach of sorrow
Thou art enthroned where all sweet founts begin;
No future and no past
On thee their shadows cast,
Who clingest to the present as a toy
Wrapt in thy primal privacy of joy.
Through which we hardly strain,
And babblement of pain
Or pleasure mixes not with that far life;
We suffer and we sin and fall therein
To rise yet with the morrow,
But past the reach of sorrow
Thou art enthroned where all sweet founts begin;
No future and no past
On thee their shadows cast,
Who clingest to the present as a toy
Wrapt in thy primal privacy of joy.
Thou art a watcher with us, but not yet
Quite of our muddy maze
And this poor mortal haze,
In which we never see the suns till set;
Work has no meaning now for that bright brow,
And thine is but one measure
For loss and gain of treasure
And broken plaything, heart or vow;
Thou readest on a stage
The pictured title page
Of Nature's book, where universe and bee
Are both the same—a spectacle for thee.
Quite of our muddy maze
And this poor mortal haze,
In which we never see the suns till set;
Work has no meaning now for that bright brow,
And thine is but one measure
For loss and gain of treasure
And broken plaything, heart or vow;
Thou readest on a stage
The pictured title page
Of Nature's book, where universe and bee
Are both the same—a spectacle for thee.
474
Thou art still one with all the Orient things
Where it is only morn,
And thought is not a thorn
But wandering in blue skies of angel wings;
And at thy blessèd feet so white and sweet
Are kisses and caresses,
And dear first lovelinesses
In adoration and low laughter meet;
Before the parting ways
Thy fancy lightly strays,
There is no burden to thine infant breath—
No mystery in married life and death.
Where it is only morn,
And thought is not a thorn
But wandering in blue skies of angel wings;
And at thy blessèd feet so white and sweet
Are kisses and caresses,
And dear first lovelinesses
In adoration and low laughter meet;
Before the parting ways
Thy fancy lightly strays,
There is no burden to thine infant breath—
No mystery in married life and death.
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