 | A Lost Epic and Other Poems |  |
Blossom and Babe.
O happy little English cot! O rustic-sweet vignette
Of red brick walls and thatchèd roof, in appleblossom set!
O happy Devon meadows, how you come to me again!
And I am riding as I rode along the cool green lane,
A-dreaming and a-dreaming; and behold! I see once more
The fair young mother with her babe beside the shaded door.
How bright it was! No blossom trembled in the hot blue noon,
And grasshoppers were thrilling all the drowsy heart of June!
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
Of red brick walls and thatchèd roof, in appleblossom set!
O happy Devon meadows, how you come to me again!
And I am riding as I rode along the cool green lane,
A-dreaming and a-dreaming; and behold! I see once more
The fair young mother with her babe beside the shaded door.
How bright it was! No blossom trembled in the hot blue noon,
And grasshoppers were thrilling all the drowsy heart of June!
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
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And as I passed, the stridulous incessant jangle ran
Along the hedgerow following me, until my brain began
To mingle in a waking dream the baby at the breast,
The woman and the apple-bloom, the shrilly sounding pest,—
To blend them with that great green age of trees which never shed
A bell of gold or purple or a petal of white or red,
When all the music of the world—a world too young to sing—
Was such a piercing riot made by such an insect wing.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
Along the hedgerow following me, until my brain began
To mingle in a waking dream the baby at the breast,
The woman and the apple-bloom, the shrilly sounding pest,—
To blend them with that great green age of trees which never shed
A bell of gold or purple or a petal of white or red,
When all the music of the world—a world too young to sing—
Was such a piercing riot made by such an insect wing.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
And then I thought of all the ages, all the waste of power,
That went to tinge one pulpy fruit, to flush one little flower;
And just in this same wise, I mused, the Human too must grow
Through waste of life, through blood and tears, through centuries of woe,
To reach the perfect—flower and fruit; for Nature does not scan,
More than the individual tree, the individual man;
A myriad blossoms shall be lavished, if but one shall give
The onward impulse to the thought that Nature means to live.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
That went to tinge one pulpy fruit, to flush one little flower;
And just in this same wise, I mused, the Human too must grow
Through waste of life, through blood and tears, through centuries of woe,
To reach the perfect—flower and fruit; for Nature does not scan,
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A myriad blossoms shall be lavished, if but one shall give
The onward impulse to the thought that Nature means to live.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
O fair young mother, far removed from visions of unrest,
Be happy in the baby blossom flushing at thy breast!
The blesseder condition thine, that thou canst never see
The strife, the cruel waste, the cyclic growth in man and tree;
That thou canst trust a heart, more kind than ever Nature shows,
Will gather each baby bloom that falls, will cherish each that blows;
Canst need no solace from the faith, that since the world began
The Brute hath reached the Human through the martyrdom of man.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
Be happy in the baby blossom flushing at thy breast!
The blesseder condition thine, that thou canst never see
The strife, the cruel waste, the cyclic growth in man and tree;
That thou canst trust a heart, more kind than ever Nature shows,
Will gather each baby bloom that falls, will cherish each that blows;
Canst need no solace from the faith, that since the world began
The Brute hath reached the Human through the martyrdom of man.
O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!
| A Lost Epic and Other Poems | |