| |
| AMID the rush and fever of the street, | |
| The snarl and clash of countless quarrelling bells, | |
| And the sick, heavy heat, | |
| The hissing footsteps, and the hateful smells, | |
| I found you, speaking quietly | 5 |
| Of sunlit hill-horizons and clean earth; | |
| While the pale multitude that may not dare | |
| To pause and live a moment, lest they die, | |
| Swarmed onward with hot eyes, and left you there— | |
| An armful of God’s glory, nothing worth. | 10 |
| |
| You are more beautiful than I can know. | |
| Even one loving you might gaze an hour | |
| Nor learn the perfect glow | |
| Of line and tint in one small, purple flower. | |
| There are no two of you the same, | 15 |
| And every one is wonderful and new— | |
| Poor baby blossoms that have died unblown, | |
| And you that droop yourselves as if for shame, | |
| You too are perfect. I had hardly known | |
| The grace of your glad sisters but for you. | 20 |
| |
| You myriad of little litanies! | |
| Not as our bitter piety, subdued | |
| To cold creed that denies | |
| Or lying law that severs glad and good; | |
| But like a child’s eyes after sleep | 25 |
| Uplifted; like a girl’s first wordless prayer | |
| Close-held by him who loves her—no distress, | |
| No storm of supplication, but a deep, | |
| Dear heartache of such utter happiness | |
| As only utter purity can bear. | 30 |
| |
| For you are all the robin feels at dawn; | |
| The meaning of great dimness, and calm moons | |
| On high fields far withdrawn, | |
| Where the haze glimmers and the wild bee croons. | |
| You are the soul of a June night:— | 35 |
| Intimate joy of moon-swept vale and glade, | |
| Warm fragrance breathing upward from the ground, | |
| And eager winds tremulous with sharp delight | |
| Till all the tense-tuned gloom thrills like a sound— | |
| Mystery of sweet passion unafraid. | 40 |
| |
| O sweet, sweet, sweet! You are the proof of all | |
| That over-truth our dreams have memory of | |
| That day cannot recall: | |
| Work without weariness, and tearless love, | |
| And taintless laughter. While we run | 45 |
| To measure dust, and sounding names are hurled | |
| Into the nothingness of days unborn, | |
| You hold your little hearts up to the sun, | |
| Quietly beautiful amid our scorn— | |
| God’s answer to the wisdom of this world. | 50 |
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