The first faint dawn was flushing up the
When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes,
I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,— a winter wild with war and woe and wrong —Beyond my casement had been void of song.
And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set,
Live buds that warbled like a
Beneath a veil of willows. Then I
Those tiny voices, clear as drops of dew,
Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue,
Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles,
Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measure
Innumerable over land and
With wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee,
They filled that dark old oak with jubilee,
Foretelling in delicious
Their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays,
How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate,
Of milkweed flax and fern-down
To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate.
Listening to those blithe notes,
I slipped once
From lyric dawn through dreamland's open door,
And there was God,
Eternal Life that sings,
Eternal joy, brooding all mortal things,
A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings.
