Thirty Poems/The Twenty-Seventh of March
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.
Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should riseAmid a chorus of the merriest birdsThat ever sang the stars out of the skyIn a June morning. Rivulets should sendA voice of gladness from their winding paths,Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds,Stirring the loaded stems should shower the, dewUpon the glamy water. Newly blownRoses, by thousands, to the garden walksShould tempt the lottering moth and diligent bee.The longest, brightest day in all the year Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyesFirst opened on the earth, to make thy hauntsFairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. Thus might a poet say; but I must bringA birthday offering of an humbler strain,And yet it may not please thee less. I holdThat 'twas the fitting season for thy birthWhen March, just ready to depart, beginsTo soften into April. Then we haveThe delicatest and most welcome flowers,And yet they take least heed of bitter windAnd lowering sky. The periwinkle then,In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure bloomsBeside the cottage door; within the woodsTufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneathThe leaves of the last summer, send their sweetsUp to the chilly air; and, by the oak,The squirrel-cups, a graceful company,Hide in their bells a soft aërial blue—Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks, And yet within whose smallest bud is wraptA world of promise! Still the north wind breathesHis frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet;Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again,The flowers smile up to him from their low seats. Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life.Its storms and its keen winds to thee have beenMost kindly tempered, and through all its gloomThere has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart;The griefs of life to thee have been like snows,That light upon the fields in early spring,Making them greener. In its milder hours,The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen,The glorious bloom of June, and in the noteOf early bird, that comes a messengerFrom climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard The choir that fills the summer woods with song. Now be the hours that yet remain to theeStormy or sunny, sympathy and love,That inextinguishably dwell withinThy heart, shall give a beauty and a lightTo the most desolate moments, like the glowOf a bright fireside in the wildest day;And kindly words and offices of goodShall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gatesOf a more genial season, and thy pathBe lost to human eye among the bowersAnd living fountains of a brighter land.
Written March, 1855.