Poems (Thaxter)/Under the Light-house

by Celia Thaxter

UNDER THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

Beneath the tall, white lighthouse strayed the children,    In the May morning sweet;About the steep and rough gray rocks they wandered    With hesitating feet;For scattered far and wide the birds were lying,    Quiet, and cold, and dead,That met, while they were swiftly winging north- ward,    The fierce light overhead,And as the frail moths in the summer evenings    Fly to the candle's blaze,Rushed wildly at the splendor, finding only    Death in those blinding rays.And here were bobolink, and wren, and sparrow,    Veery, and oriole,And purple finch, and rosy grossbeak, swallows,    And king-birds quaint and droll;Gay soldier blackbirds, wearing on their shoulders    Red, gold-edged epaulets, And many a homely, brown, red-breasted robin,    Whose voice no child forgets.And yellow-birds—what shapes of perfect beauty!    What silence after song!And mingled with them, unfamiliar warblers    That to far woods belong.Clothing the gray rocks with a mournful beauty    By scores the dead forms lay,That, dashed against the tall tower's cruel windows,    Dropped like the spent sea spray.How many an old and sun-steeped barn, far inland,    Should miss about its eavesThe twitter and the gleam of these swift swallows!    And, swinging 'mid the leaves,The oriole's nest, all empty in the elm-tree,    Would cold and silent be,And never more these robins make the meadows    Ring with their ecstasy.Would not the gay swamp-border miss the black- birds,    Whistling so loud and clear?Would not the bobolinks' delicious music    Lose something of its cheer?"Yet," thought the wistful children, gazing landward,     "The birds will not be missed;Others will take their place in field and forest,    Others will keep their tryst:And we, we only, know how death has met them;    We wonder and we mournThat from their innocent and bright existence    Thus roughly they are torn."And so they laid the sweet, dead shapes together,    Smoothing each ruffled wing,Perplexed and sorrowful, and pondering deeply    The meaning of this thing.(Too hard to fathom for the wisest nature    Crowned with the snows of age!)And all the beauty of the fair May morning    Seemed like a blotted page.They bore them down from the rough cliffs of granite    To where the grass grew green,And laid them 'neath the soft turf, all together,    With many a flower between;And, looking up with wet eyes, saw how brightly    Upon the summer seaLay the clear sunlight, how white sails were shining,    And small waves laughed in glee:And somehow, comfort grew to check their grieving,     A sense of brooding care,As if, in spite of death, a loving presence    Filled all the viewless air."What should we fear?" whispered the little children,    "There is no thing so smallBut God will care for it in earth or heaven;    He sees the sparrows fall!"