The Sweetness of Life
It fell on a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
The flowers and the beasts in the meadow
Seemed happy even as I;
And I stretched my hands to the meadow,
To the bird, the beast, the tree:
‘Why are ye all so happy?’
I cried, and they answered me.
What sayest thou, Oh meadow,
That stretchest so wide, so far,
That none can say how many
Thy misty marguerites are?
And what say ye, red roses,
That o’er the sun-blanched wall
From your high black-shadowed trellis
Like flame or blood-drops fall?
‘We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die;
We dream, and are bright and happy,
But we cannot answer why.’
What sayest thou, Oh shadow,
That from the dreaming hill
All down the broadening valley
Liest so sharp and still?
And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet,
Whereby in the noonday gleam
The loosestrife burns like ruby,
And the branched asters dream?
‘We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die;
We dream and are very happy,
But we cannot answer why.’
And then of myself I questioned,
That like a ghost the while
Stood from me and calmly answered,
With slow and curious smile:
‘Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt linger
Thine own short space and die;
Thou dream’st and art strangely happy,
But thou canst not answer why.’
