THE YOUNG THINGS.
THE SAPLING.
When I was but a sprig of May,
With wonders to command,
Above all else I loved most well
What none could understand;
And dear were things far-off—far-off, but nothing near at hand.
O, now it was the sunset isle
Beyond the weather-vane;
And now it was the chime I heard
From belfry-towers of Spain;
But never yet the little leaf that tapped my window-pane.
Heigh-ho, the wistful things unseen
That reach, as I did then,
To guess, and wear the heart of youth
With eager Why and When!
And never eye takes heed of them, in all the world of men.
THE HERO.
I saw the river going,
All silver to the brim,
Along the southern meadows
That were a home to him.
I sang, ‘O River, bear him
My dream, a silver swan.
’Tis only he, all day, all day,
That I do think upon.’
And oh, my foolish heart forgot,
So rapt in heart’s desire,
The years he has been sleeping,
Beneath a far-off spire.
NESTS.
O Sparrow, sparrow, did you ever try
To build a nest high up where no birds are,
And close unto a star,
Where it might cling and hear the wind go by?
For that did I!
And far and far I flew along the quest,
For shelter, and I passed the summer rain,
I saw the daylight wane;
I found among the stars no place of rest,
And built no nest.
Down to the Earth again with baffled wings,
The warm green earth where such as we must stay.
But all the livelong day,
High over heaven my dream nest clings and swings,
And my heart sings,
Sparrow!
SIDE STREETS.
Some days the faces in the street
Are clouded all, and dull;
And near or far, not one I see
To call it beautiful.
O heavy, heavy is my heart;
And is the spirit blind?
That I am stricken with a doubt,
Because of human kind.
Until I rest my looks upon
Some cart-horse standing by,
With patient forehead, weary mane,
And unreproachful eye.
And kiss him on the brow I do!—
Because I have a mind
To thank him just that he will be
So beautiful, and kind.
THE FIR-TREE.
The winds have blown more bitter
Each darkening day of fall;
High over all the house-tops
The stars are far and small.
I wonder, will my fir-tree
Be green in spite of all?
O grief is colder—colder
Than wind from any part;
And tears of grief are bitter tears,
And doubt’s a sorer smart!
But I promised to my fir-tree
To keep the fragrant heart.
EARLY-HEART.
‘Early-Heart tends no geese like ours;
Every one is a swan,
Fit to sing with a nightingale,
Or say to a goose, Begone!’
‘Alack, poor souls,’ quoth Early-Heart,
‘Then yours be only geese?
Nor only so; but your sheep are sheep;
And mine have a golden fleece!’
Quoth Early-Heart, ‘And if mine be swans,
Right true you say, hereby.
So take your little and leave my much;
For the lad in luck am I!’
Waddle and quack, and bleat and baa,
They quacked and they baa’d, ’tis true.
But Early-Heart followed a white, white flock,
And the hills were far and blue.
BEAUTIFUL.
I have no word to tell you
The beauty of her face;
From her, a wedding garment
Would win a grace.
And as the glow of moonrise
Will make the east divine,
Doth Soul, the radiant dweller,
Her face outshine.
AFTER ALL.
I would not now give up one hurt,
In this far light of morning;
Each one a rose, a blood-red rose,
A rose for my adorning.
Yes, and the pallor of old grief,
Too lowly even for scorning,
Is warmed into a breathing rose,
A rose for my adorning.
VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.
I love my little gowns;
I love my little shoes,
All standing still below them,
Set quietly by twos.
All day I wear them careless,
But when I put them by
They look so dear and different,
And yet I don’t know why.
My oldest one of all,—
Worn out; and then the best;
But that I have not worn enough
To love it, like the rest.
The dimity for Sunday,
The blue one and the wool,
Now that I see them hanging up,
Are somehow beautiful.
Of all the white, with ribbons
Gray-green, if I could choose;
The fichu that helps everything
Be gay; and then, my shoes.
My shoes that skip and saunter,
And one that will untie:—
They look so funny and so young,
I hate to put them by.
I wonder,—if some day ...
All this will be the Past?—
Poor Hop-the-brook and Dance-with-me,
They cannot always last!
THE TOP OF THE MORNING.
My days are strung in amber
Till I am sad again:
My days are full of sunlight
Beyond all sun or rain.
My heart is full of tidings
From every wind that blows;
And I cannot say, ‘Good-day to you,’
But everybody knows!
FORETHOUGHT.
I did not keep the Rose he brought,
After its day;
Although it lived a longer time
Than other roses may.
I let it go the way of all,
For this one fear:
Because it might persuade my heart
That he was growing dear.
But now my heart is well assured;
And I still sing;
And no one here would ever know
That I miss anything!
UNSAID.
Ah lad, if I could only say
The smiles are not for you!
But since your eyes are turned this way,
What is there I can do?
It’s one I see beyond, beyond,
My heart is leaning to.
I know, I know, the whole hour long
I have been dull and sad,
And answered not the word at all
I meant to answer, lad;
Because my wits were gone astray
With all the heart I had.
And now the latest ones are come,
And he is coming too;
And I would keep the starlight back,
But oh, it will shine through!
And since you never turn to see,
You take it all to you.
DANCE-TIME.
It’s I live in a very wise Town,
As all wise people know:
They read, they write, they read all day
As orchard-trees do grow.
Said I,—I was a young thing then,
And a foolish young thing, too,—
‘I will not spend my little life thus;
There’s much I’d rather do.
‘For I would rather look at you
This way, with happy looks,
Than lose the stars from my two eyes
With poring over books.
‘I’d rather far be red and white
For stupid folks to see
Than write nine books for little dull worms
To eat them, leisurely.
‘And I would rather have it said
When all my days are through,
“O she was good to see and hear
And say Good-morning to!”
‘When learning makes you white and red
And fresh as west-winds blow,
I may spend sun and candle-light
To learn what they all know.
‘But O, the wise in this wise Town,
They have no longer prime.
And there are fewer wise men, now,
Than once upon a time!’
THE ENCHANTED SHEEP-FOLD.
The hills far-off were blue, blue,
The hills at hand were brown;
And all the herd-bells called to me
As I came by the down.
The briars turned to roses—roses
Ever we stayed to pull
A white little rose, and a red little rose,
And a lock of silver wool.
Nobody heeded,—none, none;
And when True Love came by,
They thought him nought but the shepherd boy.
Nobody knew but I!
The trees were feathered like birds, birds;
Birds were in every tree.
Yet nobody heeded, nobody heard,
Nobody knew, save we.
And he is fairer than all,—all.
How could a heart go wrong?
For his eyes I knew, and his knew mine,
Like an old, old song.
YES, LOVE IS BLIND.
Truly, Love is blind.
All my wish and will,
That he takes for me:
Sure Love cannot see,
That he thinks so, still!
Truly, Love is blind;
But he hears, instead.
He hath such fine ears,
Far away he hears
Little words unsaid.
Truly, Love is blind;
For the merest touch,
Hover of a breath,
Smiling underneath,
He will take for much.
Blind, and without fear!
Even so, I find
He would have me here
Always, very near.
Truly, Love is blind.
THE MORNING WAS SO BRIGHT.
The morning was so bright to see,
I thought that he would come,
Though he is far away from me
While I bide on at home.
The morning was so wide, so blue;
The tide ran in to greet:—
It could not be, I knew, I knew,
But O, the wind was sweet!
There was a ripple on the pond;
The road had one refrain;
And something called me, just beyond
The turn of every lane.
The trees were trying not to sing;
They beckoned on and on:
The day went by with promising,
And now the day is gone.
The after-glow, it fades away
With my own Star above;—
And all the day, and all the day,
I looked for my true love.
THE TWO.
And if they faltered in their speech,
They knew not; for their eyes
Grew like with gazing, each on each,
Like deep of sea and skies.
AFTER-THOUGHT.
‘But I was happy then,
How happy was I then!’
The sorry saying you may hear
Upon the lips of men.
To know when you are happy,
You would not call it wise;
Yet, for the seeing happiness,
How tears will clear the eyes!
They laugh best who laugh last,
Says Pride that fears a fall.
But O, who will not laugh at first
May never laugh at all!