Poems (Spofford)/The Birthday
THE BIRTHDAY.M. L. B.
Into this world, with April, youWere ushered by the birds, the dewOn opening violets, and the blueOf skies just washed from weary stainWith shower on shower of happy rain;By earthy scent of furrows new,By sudden rainbows on the wing,And each dear thing of early spring.
Wild hyacinths are in the grass,That grow more purple as you pass;And pale above the answering glassThey find in many a shadowy brookThe daffodils bend down and look,See the chance cloud, a snowy mass,And see the restless bluebird flyDeep in the high and painted sky.
Oh, gay the day that April brings,When all about the wide air ringsWith melody of whistling wings,With rustling waters, and the sighOf odorous branches far and nigh,Where the bee murmurs as he clings,While up and down the glad winds strewThe rosy snow of apple blow!
Ah, if on some delicious day,Dropped out of heaven and into May,You first had wandered down this way,When mellow sunbeams wove their snareThrough azure vapors everywhere,And all the land in languor lay,It had not seemed a day so meet,So shy and fleet, so fresh and sweet!