A BIRTH-SONG.
111
Some news too good for words,
Heart‑hushed and smiling, we
Might hope to have of thee,
The youngest of God's birds,
If thy sweet sense might mix itself with ours,
If ours might understand
The language of thy land,
Ere thine become the tongue of mortal hours:
Ere thy lips learn too soon
Their soft first human tune,
Sweet, but less sweet than now,
And thy raised eyes to read
Glad and good things indeed,
But none so sweet as thou:
Ere thought lift up their flower‑soft lids to see
What life and love on earth
Bring thee for gifts at birth,
But none so good as thine who hast given us thee:
