When at each door the ruffian winds
Have laid a dying man to groan,
And filled the air on winter nights
With cries of infants left alone;
And every thing that has a bed
Will sigh for others that have none:
On such a night, when bitter cold,
Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet,
Can redden in her looking-glass;
With but one gown on, in bare feet,
She from her own reflected charms
Can feel the joy of summer's heat.
The Lark that in heaven dim
Can match a rainy hour
With his own music's shower,
Can make me sing like him--
Heigh ho! The rain!
Sing--when a Nightingale
Pours forth her own sweet soul
To hear dread thunder roll
Into a tearful tale--
Heigh ho! The rain!
Sing--when a Sparrow's seen
Trying to lie at rest
By pressing his warm breast
To leaves so wet and green--
Heigh ho! The rain!
Good morning, Life--and all
Things glad and beautiful.
My pockets nothing hold,
But he that owns the gold,
The Sun, is my great friend--
His spending has no end.
Hail to the morning sky,
Which bright clouds measure high;
Hail to you birds whose throats
Would number leaves by notes;
Hail to you shady bowers,
And you green fields of flowers.
Hail to you women fair,
That make a show so rare
In cloth as white as milk--
Be't calico or silk:
My youth was my old age,
Weary and long;
It had too many cares
To think of song;
My moulting days all came
When I was young.
Now, in life's prime, my soul
Comes out in flower;
Late, as with Robin, comes
My singing power;
I was not born to joy
Till this late hour.
Somehow this world is wonderful at times,
As it has been from early morn in May ;
Since first I heard the cock-a-doodle-do,
Timekeeper on green farms — at break of day.
Soon after that I heard ten thousand birds,
Which made me think an angel brought a bin
Of golden grain, and none was scattered yet —
To rouse those birds to make that merry din.
I could not sleep again, for such wild cries.
And went out early into their green world ;
And then I saw what set their little tongues
To scream for joy — they saw the East in gold.
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Nay, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness,
Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief.
Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty
To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.
Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble.
Time will not pause or tarry on his way ;
To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter.
Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.
Nay, do not weep ; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
The unspent joy of all the unborn years.
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow.
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.
Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence.
The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose,
The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam.
The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes.
The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden
Watching the petals of gladness unclose ?
Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret.
The bliss at the core of your magical mirth.
That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder
And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth.
That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom
The roots of delight in the heart of the earth ?
When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:
"Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion,
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy;
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her--
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy."
Evening, and all the birds
In a chorus of shimmering sound
Are easing their hearts of joy
For miles around.
The air is blue and sweet,
The few first stars are white,--
Oh let me like the birds
Sing before night.
I AM not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.
I am not sorry for my soul,
But oh, my body that must go
Back to a little drift of dust
Without the joy it longed to know.
I AM wild, I will sing to the trees,
I will sing to the stars in the sky,
I love, I am loved, he is mine,
Now at last I can die!
I am sandaled with wind and with flame,
I have heart-fire and singing to give,
I can tread on the grass or the stars,
Now at last I can live!