  D Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing, Ignorant yet of restless fluttering, How long will you be so content to sing For me alone? when will the world be stirred By notes that even I have scarcely heard, Since you are still only a mocking-bird? My little Clytie with the constant eyes Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,— How can you know, my sweet unconscious one, In the bright days for you but just begun, That I am worthy to be held your sun? My little loyal worshipper, the bloom Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom, Turned ever steadily to my near room, Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true, The one glad door through which I come to you, Caring for naught but what that hides from view,— How long, dear one, how many precious years, Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears? Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart Knows well how quickly she will have to part With all this wonder;—she who tries each art To lure him on; the first to coax and praise Each added grace; then first in sore amaze |
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