Poems (Spofford)/The Birthday

THE BIRTHDAY. M. L. B.

Into this world, with April, you
Were ushered by the birds, the dew
On opening violets, and the blue
Of skies just washed from weary stain
With shower on shower of happy rain;
By earthy scent of furrows new,
By sudden rainbows on the wing,
And each dear thing of early spring.

Wild hyacinths are in the grass,
That grow more purple as you pass;
And pale above the answering glass
They find in many a shadowy brook
The daffodils bend down and look,
See the chance cloud, a snowy mass,
And see the restless bluebird fly
Deep in the high and painted sky.

Oh, gay the day that April brings,
When all about the wide air rings
With melody of whistling wings,
With rustling waters, and the sigh
Of odorous branches far and nigh,
Where the bee murmurs as he clings,
While up and down the glad winds strew
The rosy snow of apple blow!

Ah, if on some delicious day,
Dropped out of heaven and into May,
You first had wandered down this way,
When mellow sunbeams wove their snare
Through azure vapors everywhere,
And all the land in languor lay,
It had not seemed a day so meet,
So shy and fleet, so fresh and sweet!