I
Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now 
The voice can reach no blending minors near; 
'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here 
And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough; 
'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how, 
But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear-- 
Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year. 
Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou.

Oh music of my heart, be thus for long: 
Too soon the spring bird learns the later song; 
Too soon a sadder sweetness slays content 
Too soon! There comes new light on onward day, 
There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way: 
Comes not again the young spring joy that went. 
ROME, November 1881.

II
That she is beautiful is not delight, 
As some think mothers joy, by pride of her, 
To witness questing eyes caught prisoner 
And hear her praised the livelong dancing night; 
But the glad impulse that makes painters sight 
Bids me note her and grow the happier; 
And love that finds me as her worshipper 
Reveals me each best loveliness aright.

Oh goddess head! Oh innocent brave eyes! 
Oh curved and parted lips where smiles are rare 
And sweetness ever! Oh smooth shadowy hair 
Gathered around the silence of her brow! 
Child, I'd needs love thy beauty stranger-wise: 
And oh the beauty of it, being thou!

III
I watch the sweet grave face in timorous thought 
Lest I should see it dawn to some unrest 
And read that in her heart is youth's ill guest, 
The querulous young sadness, born of nought, 
That wearies of the strife it has not fought, 
And finds the life it has not had unblest, 
And asks it knows not what that should be best, 
And till Love come has never what it sought.

But she is still. A full and crystal lake 
So gives it skies their passage to its deeps 
In an unruffled morn where no winds wake, 
And, strong and fretless, 'stirs not, nor yet sleeps. 
My darling smiles and 'tis for gladness' sake; 
She hears a woe, 'tis simple tears she weeps.

IV
'Tis but a child. The quiet Juno gaze 
Breaks at a trifle into mirth and glow, 
Changed as a folded bud bursts into blow, 
And she springs, buoyant, on some busy craze, 
Or, in the rhythm of her girlish plays, 
Like light upon swift waves floats to and fro, 
And, whatsoe'er's her mirth, needs me to know, 
And keeps me young by her young innocent ways.

Just now she and her kitten raced and sprang 
To catch the daisy ball she tossed about; 
Then they grew grave, and found a shady tree, 
And kitty tried to see the notes she sang: 
Now she flies hitherward--'Mother! Quick! Come see! 
Two hyacinths in my garden almost out!'


V
Last night the broad blue lightnings flamed the sky; 
We watched, our breaths caught as each burst its way, 
And through its fire out-leaped the sharp white ray, 
And sudden dark re-closed when it went by: 
But she, that where we are will needs be nigh, 
Had tired with hunting orchids half the day. 
Her father thought she called us; he and I, 
Half anxious, reached the bedroom where she lay.

Oh lily face upon the whiteness blent! 
How calm she lay in her unconscious grace! 
A peal crashed on the silence ere we went; 
She stirred in sleep, a little changed her place, 
'Mother,' she breathed, a smile grew on her face: 
'Mother,' my darling breathed, and slept content.

VI
Sometimes, as young things will, she vexes me, 
Wayward, or too unheeding, or too blind. 
Like aimless birds that, flying on a wind, 
Strike slant against their own familiar tree; 
Like venturous children pacing with the sea, 
That turn but when the breaker spurts behind 
Outreaching them with spray: she in such kind 
Is borne against some fault, or does not flee.

And so, may be, I blame her for her wrong, 
And she will frown and lightly plead her part, 
And then I bid her go. But 'tis not long: 
Then comes she lip to ear and heart to heart. 
And thus forgiven her love seems newly strong, 
And, oh my penitent, how dear thou art!

VII
Her father lessons me I at times am hard, 
Chiding a moment's fault as too grave ill, 
And let some little blot my vision fill, 
Scanning her with a narrow near regard. 
True. Love's unresting gaze is self-debarred 
From all sweet ignorance, and learns a skill, 
Not painless, of such signs as hurt love's will, 
That would not have its prize one tittle marred.

Alas! Who rears and loves a dawning rose 
Starts at a speck upon one petal's rim: 
Who sees a dusk creep in the shrined pearl's glows, 
Is ruined at once: 'My jewel growing dim!' 
I watch one bud that on my bosom blows, 
I watch one treasured pearl for me and him.

VIII
A little child she, half defiant came 
Reasoning her case--'twas not so long ago-