Lyrics of Earth

BOSTON
COPELAND AND DAY
MDCCCXCV
Copyright by Copeland and Day, 1895.
Mother, to whose valiant will, Battling long ago, What the heaping years fulfil, Light and song, I owe; Send my little book a-field, Fronting praise or blame With the shining flag and shield Of your name.

It fell on a day I was happy, And the winds, the concave sky, The flowers and the beasts in the meadow Seemed happy even as I; And I stretched my hands to the meadow, To the bird, the beast, the tree: Why are ye all so happy? I cried, and they answered me.
What sayest thou, Oh meadow, That stretches so wide, so far, That none can say how many Thy misty marguerites are? And what say ye, red roses, That o'er the sun-blanched wall From your high black-shadowed trellis Like flame or blood-drops fall? We are born, we are reared, and we linger A various space and die; We dream, and are bright and happy, But we cannot answer why.
What sayest thou, Oh shadow, That from the dreaming hill All down the broadening valley Liest so sharp and still? And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet, Whereby in the noonday gleam The loosestrife burns like ruby, And the branchèd asters dream? We are born, we are reared, and we linger A various space and die; We dream and are very happy, But we cannot answer why.
And then of myself I questioned, That like a ghost the while Stood from me and calmly answered, With slow and curious smile: Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt linger Thine own short space and die; Thou dream'st and art strangely happy, But thou canst not answer why.

March is slain; the keen winds fly; Nothing more is thine to do; April kisses thee good-bye; Thou must haste and follow too; Silent friend that guarded well Withered things to make us glad, Shyest friend that could not tell Half the kindly thought he had. Haste thee, speed thee, O kind snow; Down the dripping valleys go, From the fields and gleaming meadows, Where the slaying hours behold thee, From the forests whose slim shadows, Brown and leafless cannot fold thee, Through the cedar lands aflame With gold light that cleaves and quivers, Songs that winter may not tame, Drone of pines and laugh of rivers. May thy passing joyous be To thy father, the great sea, For the sun is getting stronger; Earth hath need of thee no longer; Go, kind snow, God-speed to thee!