  Aye, throb, my heart! is it not sweet to be, To breathe, to bide, by growing things once more! We did not guess before How close our life was locked in greenery. Hark! how the sparrows in the apple tree Are chattering, chirping, till their tiny throats Are fairly brimmed and quivering through and through With rollick notes! Good morrow, little birds! Good morrow! morrow!—O, I would I knew Some light-winged language, kindred singing words Wherein to say This day, this day, at last this happy day I come to be a neighbor unto you! Too long, too long, we heard strange footsteps pass, Harsh, strident echoes stricken out of stone; But never softened by green, growing grass, Or mellowed to faint, earthy undertone. And then, O heart, Did we not ofttimes feel ourselves apart, Alone, Wrought to vague discord by some touch unknown? In dreaming of tall clover, daisy sown, Or music blown From the wind-harping of some little leaf? It was not that within the city’s core There dwelt no sympathies, nor interests keen, No human ties to temper its fatigues. —’Twas only that we needed something more; Some note rang wrong; A foolish fancy, may be, but still strong, That life sang sweeter snatched between the green Close-lapping verdure of a fret of twigs. Where all the ground was paven out of sight, And only from a far-off strip of sky My mother Nature strove to speak to me, I could not harken to her voice aright; I knew not why, But ever to mine ears some whispering tree Seemed of the inmost golden soul of her, The best interpreter. And so what wonder, Life, that you and I, Shut out from such glad confidence, should miss And grieve for this. —But all this yearning we’ll forget; for now Within my window, So, By finger-tips, I’ll draw into mine arms this dancing bough, And stroke its silky buds across my lips. Weave gentle blessings in the shade and shine; And granting gracious patience to my plea, Some simple lesson of your lore make mine, Make mine, I pray! O, be a kindly teacher unto me, And I’ll pour out such worshipful heart-wine, Not any bird that sings to you all day, Or nestles to low, leafy lullaby, Shall hold you in such dear observance, nay, Nor love you half so tenderly as I.
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