Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Apple Blossoms and the Child
APPLE BLOSSOMS AND THE CHILD
Beneath each rosy-whiteEthereal bloom, lovely as pearl and seeminglyAs useless save to charm the sight,There lieth, not mere prophecyOf fruit to come, but the round fruitIn miniature complete—a globe minute,With envelope and flesh and seedSo planned that it shall need,To make fair food for longing lips,Only the balmy wind, the freshening rain,And the sunshine that slipsIts warming touch the sheltering leaves between.—And, baby, in thy soul againWhoso hath looked the miracle hath seen.Here is not promise that a man shall grow;Here is the man as he may be,Full-formed withinThe fragrant petal-cup of infancy.
Watch the bright eyeSeeking, insatiable, to learn, to know;Watch the unresting steps beginTheir voyages of far discovery.See how to hands outstretched the soft hands cling, And how the soft glance tellsResponsive love to love that dwellsIn other eyes.See how the tender wounded heart can bringSwift dignity to heal its grieved surprise,And courage comes at call,The brave mouth quivers but the foot stands fastWhen perilous risks befall—When the great hound, first seen, affrights,Or in the dusk of garden nightsThe moth, the beetle, whirr too closely past!
How valiant the desire to aidIn tasks enormous for so slender powers;How keen the sense in the beloved to seeThe changes madeBy the uncomp ehended flight of changeful hours—To give the kiss betokening sympathy,Or trustfulness, or merriment.How quick the lamentations and the crystal tearsFor the young robin slain,The lily that the storm has rent;Yet with what gentle fortitude the small soul bearsIts own long fevered test of unaccustomed pain,Stoic yet sweet the while,Weakened of all except the will to smile. So unto us the babe is born;So in the blossom of his happy mornLie wrapped the pattern and the planOf grace and virtue in the man.Oh, sheltering leaves, oh, warming sun,Guard, foster, fashion, that there shall in oneBe fully ripened, undistorted, undefiled,The springtime excellences of the child.Blow, bracing wind! Fall, fructifying rain!Round out the promise of the tiny sphere,Nor let it grow to gnarlèd shape and bitter grain,Nor, blighted, drop and disappear;For all the world is hungry, thirsty, destitute,Lacking due harvest of such fruitAs waits, so small and yet so perfect, here.