| |
| I SIT in the shade of a tree and sing | |
| Unto this wee, mysterious thing | |
| Upon my breast—my own, and yet | |
| How could I more than I beget? | |
| At the feather-touch of searching lips. | 5 |
| Of tiny, groping finger-tips, | |
| I know the surge of something more, | |
| Deeper within than lived before; | |
| As though, when this was come to birth, | |
| A largess, more of heaven than earth, | 10 |
| Enriched my spirit, making me | |
| A part of all Infinity. | |
| |
| I am akin to this old tree, | |
| Yet of a richer destiny: | |
| Its shining leaves sing in the sun | 15 |
| As I unto my little one; | |
| We share creation’s leap and thrill, | |
| Yet hold I something stranger still. | |
| What is this flaming tenderness? | |
| What summons me to this caress? | 20 |
| O Power that gave, make my love strong! | |
| The sleeper stirs; again my song | |
| Stills him to dreaming—dreams of what?— | |
| Things I knew once and have forgot? | |
| |
| Akin to all these growing things | 25 |
| My eager spirit sunward springs; | |
| And deep I sink my roots, and deeper, | |
| With each soft breath of the wee sleeper! | |
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