Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field,

      On a summer day,

      With no care to weigh,

      Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might yield —

      What a joy to have alway!

      Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all round,

      Birdlings on the wing

      Ere they pause to sing

      On the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay-mound —

      Restful joy in everything!

      Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom's hour,

      Cows in pastures near,

      Wondering why I'm here,

      Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover-flower —

      Added joy when these appear!

      Happy children far and near climbing loads of hay,

      Running here and there.

      Farmer's work to share,

      Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring play —

      Children's joy! Joy everywhere!

      Far up in air the pines are murmuring

      Love songs sweet and low,

      With a rhythmic flow,

      Worthy of the glad sun's glow.

      The airy clouds are o'er them bending,

      Captured by the sound

      Of such pleasure found

      In a playful daily round.

      The birds pause in their flight to listen,

      Wondering all the while

      How the trees can smile

      Rooted so to earthly guile.

      The hush of summer noon enwraps them

      Perfumed from below

      By the flowers that show

      They, too, murmuring love songs know.

      All nature finds a joy in loving —

      Oh, that I could hear

      Love songs once so dear

      Death has hushed forever here!

      The earthquake's shock, the thunder's roar,

      The lightning's vivid chain,

      The ocean's strength, the deluge's pour,

      The wildest hurricane,

      Are moods that Nature loves to show

      To man who boasts his birth

      From conscious force she could not know

      Because denied soul-worth.

      But is it true she does not share

      A knowledge in God's plan?

      Must not she His own secret bear

      To so touch soul of man?

      Those who deny this see not clear

      Into the heart of things;

      For how could otherwise God here

      Reveal His wanderings?

      How do I love thee?

      Oh, who knows

      How the blush of the rose

      Can its secret disclose?

      Oh, who knows?

      Why do I love thee?

      Ah, who cares

      Sound a passion he shares

      With the angels? Who dares,

      Yes, who dares?

      Thine eyes are stars to hold me

      To love's pure rapturous height.

      Thy thoughts are pearls to lead me

      To truth beyond earth's sight.

      Thy love is life to keep me

      Forever in God's light.

      Thy birthday, dear?

      Oh, would I had the poet's art

      By which I could my wish impart

      For thy new year;

      But e'en a poet's pen of gold

      Would fail my wish to thee unfold

      In earthly sphere.

      Thy birthday, dear?

      Oh, would I had the painter's skill

      Prophetic visions to fulfill

      For thy new year;

      But e'en a painter's rarest brush

      Would but my holy visions crush,

      Or fail to cheer.

      Thy birthday, dear?

      Oh, would I had sweet music's aid

      To vitalize the prayers I've made

      For thy new year;

      Alas! not even music's best

      Could put in form my soul's behest

      For thee, my dear.

      That only will expression find

      In purest depths of thine own mind

      This coming year;

      As, guided by the inner light,

      There'll come to thee the new-born sight

      Of ravished seer.

      But in this sight thou may'st so feel

      Eternal beauty o'er thee steal —

      God's gift, my dear —

      That thou can'st find the blessed art

      By which to make e'en depths of heart

      In form appear.

      Yet, it may be a heaven's birthday

      Will have to dawn for us to say

      Our best things, dear.

      For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest well

      Must