A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY
FOR C. N. B.
Who counts the foolish years?
This Brittany of ours,
With all her gathered hopes and fears,
Her scroll of smiles and tears,
Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers.
About the lone, deserted shrines
Carol melodious songsters of to-day;
Weaving their modern spell
Through Carnac’s mighty lines
The sun-burned children play,
Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well.
Above the buried Ys,
Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply;
Gazing into the azure depths they sigh,
Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this,
Longing to feel her kiss.
But homely love is waiting them ashore;
Soon they will sigh no more.
Joy of the present, full of light and life,
Faith of the future years, with promise rife—
Belovèd of the sea,
How young is Brittany!
Who marks the months’ retreat?
It is not fall when roses are abloom,
When strawberries are sweet,
And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume.
This bright September day,
With radiant sky and balmy airs at play,
Renewing joy in every living thing,
Is Spring! Is Spring!
And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth,
Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery,
Tender in faith and truth.
Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key
Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime;
You make a slave of time.
With his malicious fears,
And as this spring day brightly
Clasps like a gem the threaded years
You wear so lightly,
Who shall seek to sum them,
Admiring still how sweetly you become them?
Vitré
September 3, 1913