I
O treasure! O joy!
The little sacred Boy
Upon His mother’s knee
No sweeter was than she
Who now upon my heart,
Artless and speechless,
Worketh with more than art.
Innocent flesh and frail!
The spirit’s holy veil!
No older than the leaf-
Young April’s first,
First herald of the sheaf-
That trims the poplar bough
With tremulous light,
Will you grow strong and tall,
O spirit infinite,
O body small,
Here where all things are growing,
And the spring air is blowing?
My heart is in your hand.
Grow tall and charm the land.
II
Sweet eyes that open to the sun
In gardens deep in bloom,
How curiously your tender gaze
Searches the pearly gloom,
The vague twilight of tree and bush,
Uncolored and unknown,
Where leaf and petal float the air
Bearing their shape, alone.
Soon will the haze grow softly bright
With blue and gold anew,
The leaf turn green, the rose assume
Her ancient lovely hue
O born to miracles! The first
Must surely be this rise
Of rainbow, sunset, autumn, dawn,
To new enchanted eyes.
III
It is the motion of the heart
That draws the slender lips apart,
Delight at life, the new perceived,
The radiant, the many-leaved,
The poplar bough, its plumes unbanding,
The hummingbird in thin air standing-
Motion and quiet reconciled.
Oh, smile again, sweet child!
All too soon these lips will be
With Hero’s in eternity.
Leave a Reply