Poems (Spofford)/My Own Song
MY OWN SONG.
O glad am I that I was born!
For who is sad when flaming morn
Bursts forth, or when the mighty night
Carries the soul from height to height!
For who is sad when flaming morn
Bursts forth, or when the mighty night
Carries the soul from height to height!
To me, as to the child that sings,
The bird that claps his rain-washed wings,
The breeze that curls the sun-tipped flower,
Comes some new joy with each new hour.
The bird that claps his rain-washed wings,
The breeze that curls the sun-tipped flower,
Comes some new joy with each new hour.
Joy in the beauty of the earth,
Joy in the fire upon the hearth,
Joy in that potency of love
In which I live and breathe and move!
Joy in the fire upon the hearth,
Joy in that potency of love
In which I live and breathe and move!
Joy even in the shapeless thought
That, some day, when all tasks are wrought,
I shall explore that vasty deep
Beyond the frozen gates of sleep.
That, some day, when all tasks are wrought,
I shall explore that vasty deep
Beyond the frozen gates of sleep.
For joy attunes all beating things,
With me each rhythmic atom sings,
From glow till gloom, from murk till morn,
O glad am I that I was born!
With me each rhythmic atom sings,
From glow till gloom, from murk till morn,
O glad am I that I was born!