Flower and Voice
Tremulous out of that long darkness, how
Wast thou, O blossom, made
Upon the wintry bough?
What drew thee to appear,
Like a thought in the mind,
Ignorant, unafraid,
And perfect?—Yet the wind
Blew on thee how sharp! how drear
The drops fell from the sudden—clouded spring!
Those delicate rare petals, all storm—thrilled,
Shone into recollection, when my ear
From a half—opened door was filled
With a voice singing; floating up to sing
A song, long ago from a heart’s darkness born
And upon young lips born again;
A voice, flowering clear
In beauty stolen from the world of pain.
Ah, not to—night of beauty I thought,
Yet beautiful beyond all hope’s desire,
O wonderful, more wonderful to me
Than any miracle of beauty wrought
Was my Love’s voice, saying beside the fire,
Where she leaned by my knee,
Dear, broken words; words of no art,
And yet in them was all my want, I found;
Life has no more to give than that sweet sound
Breaking and melting deep in my heart’s heart.
