I hear the birthday's noisy bliss
My sisters' woodland glee,
My father's praise I did not miss
When stooping down, he cared to kiss
The poet at his knee,—
And voices which, to name me, aye
Their tenderest tones were keeping,—
To some I nevermore can say
An answer till God wipes away
In heaven these drops of weeping.
My name to me a sadness wears:
No murmurs cross my mind—
Now God be thanked for these thick tears,
Which show, of those departed years,
Sweet memories left behind.
Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet:
Now God be thanked for every thought
Which is so tender it has caught
Earth's guerdon of regret.
Earth saddens, never shall remove
Affections purely given;
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
The immortality of love,
And heighten it with Heaven.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]
THREESCORE AND TEN
Who reach their threescore years and ten,
As I have mine, without a sigh,
Are either more or less than men—
Not such am I.
I am not of them; life to me
Has been a strange, bewildering dream,
Wherein I knew not things that be
From things that seem.