A man wakes on his birthday to cheerful friends bearing music, garlands, and laughter. Outwardly, it’s a celebration, but inwardly he’s miserable. The woman he adores, Clotilda, has met him with coldness and rejection, and that heartache drains all the joy from the day. He even says it would be better never to have been born. The repetition of “I, my dear, was born to-day” becomes a private aside, heavy with longing, not a toast. The whole poem turns on a conditional hope: he can only welcome the sunlight, the wreaths, and his friends’ mirth if Clotilda’s anger melts. Everything—his wish to live, his sense of worth—rests on seeing her face soften and hearing her claim him with the words, “Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.” The mood is tender, aching, and quietly urgent, like a whispered plea inside a party.
On My Birthday, July 21 — Summary
I, MY dear, was born to-day-- So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say-- 'I, my dear, was born to-day.' I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say-- 'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'