For the house that was childless awhile, and the light
of it darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child’s bright feet, with the
light of his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the sweep
of the down that the sky’s belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them
whose feet were but fragrant with roses,
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted
in June and by June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire
of our eyes be gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went out
from us arid and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, was no more
than a flower that the seasons imperil,
And the joy of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought
which regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark months overpast were atoned for, and
summer began in September.
Hark, April again as a bird in the house with a child’s
voice hither and thither:
See, May in the garden again with a child’s face cheering
the woods ere they wither.
June laughs in the light of his eyes, and July on the
sunbright cheeks of him slumbers,
And August glows in a smile more sweet than the cadence
of gold-mouthed numbers.
In the morning the sight of him brightens the sun, and
the noon with delight in him flushes,
And the silence of nightfall is music about him as soft
as the sleep that it hushes.
We awake with a sense of a sunrise that is not a gift of
the sundawn’s giving,
And a voice that salutes us is sweeter than all sounds
else in the world of the living,
of it darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child’s bright feet, with the
light of his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the sweep
of the down that the sky’s belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them
whose feet were but fragrant with roses,
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted
in June and by June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire
of our eyes be gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went out
from us arid and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, was no more
than a flower that the seasons imperil,
And the joy of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought
which regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark months overpast were atoned for, and
summer began in September.
Hark, April again as a bird in the house with a child’s
voice hither and thither:
See, May in the garden again with a child’s face cheering
the woods ere they wither.
June laughs in the light of his eyes, and July on the
sunbright cheeks of him slumbers,
And August glows in a smile more sweet than the cadence
of gold-mouthed numbers.
In the morning the sight of him brightens the sun, and
the noon with delight in him flushes,
And the silence of nightfall is music about him as soft
as the sleep that it hushes.
We awake with a sense of a sunrise that is not a gift of
the sundawn’s giving,
And a voice that salutes us is sweeter than all sounds
else in the world of the living,
132
