A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY
O were I not a clod, intent
On being just an earthly thing,
I'd be that rare embodiment
Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,
Divinely-tender twittering
That Echo swoons to re-present,—
A bluebird in the Spring.
THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN
Kindly and warm and tender,
He nestled each childish palm
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer
And his speech a blessed psalm.
He has turned from the marvelous pages
Of many an alien tome—
Haply come down from Olivet,
Or out from the gates of Rome—