Or on a pool of dancing chips.

I care not if the pomps you show

Be what they soothfast appear,

Or if yon realms in sunset glow

Be bubbles of the atmosphere.

And if it be to you allowed

To fool me with a shining cloud,

So only new griefs are consoled

By new delights, as old by old,

Frankly I will be your guest,

Count your change and cheer the best.

The world hath overmuch of pain, –

If Nature give me joy again,

Of such deceit I’ll not complain.’

Ah! well I mind the calendar,

Faithful through a thousand years,

Of the painted race of flowers,

Exact to days, exact to hours,

Counted on the spacious dial

Yon broidered zodiac girds.

I know the pretty almanac

Of the punctual coming-back,

On their due days, of the birds.

I marked them yestermorn,

A flock of finches darting

Beneath the crystal arch,

Piping, as they flew, a march, –

Belike the one they used in parting

Last year from yon oak or larch;

Dusky sparrows in a crowd,

Diving, darting northward free,

Suddenly betook them all,

Every one to his hole in the wall,

Or to his niche in the apple-tree.

I greet with joy the choral trains

Fresh from palms and Cuba’s canes.

Best gems of Nature’s cabinet,

With dews of tropic morning wet,

Beloved of children, bards, and Spring,

O birds, your perfect virtues bring,

Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,

Your manners for the heart’s delight,

Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,

Here weave your chamber weather-proof,

Forgive our harms, and condescend

To man, as to a lubber friend,

And, generous, teach his awkward race

Courage, and probity, and grace!

Poets praise that hidden wine

Hid in milk we drew

At the barrier of Time,

When our life was new.

We had eaten fairy fruit,

We were quick from head to foot,

All the forms we looked on shone

As with diamond dews thereon.

What cared we for costly joys,

The Museum’s far-fetched toys?

Gleam of sunshine on the wall

Poured a deeper cheer than all

The revels of the Carnival.

We a pine-grove did prefer

To a marble theatre,

Could with gods on mallows dine,

Nor cared for spices or for wine.

Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned,

Arch on arch, the grimmest land;

Whistle of a woodland bird

Made the pulses dance,

Note of horn in valleys heard

Filled the region with romance.

None can tell how sweet,

How virtuous, the morning air;

Every accent vibrates well;

Not alone the wood-bird’s call,

Or shouting boys that chase their ball,

Pass the height of minstrel skill,

But the ploughman’s thoughtless cry,

Lowing oxen, sheep that bleat,

And the joiner’s hammer-beat,

Softened are above their will.

All grating discords melt,

No dissonant note is dealt,

And though thy voice be shrill

Like rasping file on steel,

Such is the temper of the air,

Echo waits with art and care,

And will the faults of song repair.