Lizette Woodworth Reese: Verses about Music

Glad that I live am I;
That the sky is blue;
Glad for the country lanes,
And the fall of dew.

After the sun the rain;
After the rain the sun;
This is the way of life,
Till the work be done.

All that we need to do,
Be we low or high,
Is to see that we grow
Nearer the sky.

There’s never a rose upon the bush,
And never a bud on any tree;
In wood and field nor hint nor sign
Of one green thing for you or me.
Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,
And let the bitter weather be!

Coated with ice the garden wall;
The river reeds are stark and still;
The wind goes plunging to the sea,
And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.
Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,
And let the year blow as it will!

The little Jesus came to town;
The wind blew up, the wind blew down;
Out in the street the wind was bold;
Now who would house Him from the cold?

Then opened wide a stable door,
Fair were the rushes on the floor;
The Ox put forth a horned head :
'Come, Little Lord, here make Thy bed.'

Up rose the Sheep were folded near:
'Thou Lamb of God, come, enter here.'
He entered there to rush and reed,
Who was the Lamb of God, indeed.

The little Jesus came to town;
With Ox and Sheep He laid Him down;
Peace to the byre, peace to the fold,
For that they housed Him from the cold!

Wild rockets blew along the lane;
The tall white gentians too were there;
The mullein stalks were brave again;
Of blossoms was the bramble bare;
And toward the pasture bars below
The cows went by me, tinkling slow.

Straight through the sunset flew a thrush,
And sang the only song he knew,
Perched on a ripening elder bush;
(Oh, but to give his song its due!)
Sang it, and ceased, and left it there
To haunt bush, blade, and golden air.

Oh, but to make it plain to you!
My words were wrought for grosser stuff;
To give that lonely tune its due,
Never a word is sweet enough;
A thing to think on when ’twas past,
As is the first rose or the last.

The lad, driving his cows along,
Strode whistling through the windy grass;

The little pool the shrubs among
Lay like a bit of yellow glass;
A window in the farmhouse old,
Turned westward, was of glaring gold.

I have forgotten days and days,
And much well worth the holding fast;
Yet not the look of those green ways,
The bramble with its bloom long past,
The tinkling cows, the scent, the hush—
Still on the eider sings that thrush.

Such special sweetness was about
   That day God sent you here,
I knew the lavender was out,
   And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew,
   The ships sailed out to sea;
Yet ere that day was spent I knew
   Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune
   Lurks still in grass or bough,
So, somewhat of the end o' June
   Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir,
   The old year strips the trees;
But ever in my lavender
   I hear the brawling bees.

For me the jasmine buds unfold
   And silver daisies star the lea,
The crocus hoards the sunset gold,
   And the wild rose breathes for me.
I feel the sap through the bough returning,
   I share the skylark's transport fine,
I know the fountain's wayward yearning,
   I love, and the world is mine!

I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved,
   Still well remembered, grieve not me;
From all that darkened and deceived
   Upsoars my spirit free.
For soft the hours repeat one story,
   Sings the sea one strain divine;
My clouds arise all flushed with glory --
   I love, and the world is mine!