Songs from the Mountains (1880). Persia
I am writing this song at the close Of a beautiful day of the spring In a dell where the daffodil grows By a grove of the glimmering wing; From glades where a musical word Comes ever from luminous fall, I send you the song of a bird That I wish to be dear to you all. I have given my darling the name Of a land at the gates of the day, Where morning is always the same, And spring never passes away. With a prayer for a lifetime of light, I christened her Persia, you see; And I hope that some fathers to-night Will kneel in the spirit with me. She is only commencing to look At the beauty in which she is set; And forest and flower and brook, To her are all mysteries yet. I know that to many my words Will seem insignificant things; But you who are mothers of birds Will feel for the father who sings. For all of you doubtless have been Where sorrows are many and wild; And you know what a beautiful scene Of this world can be made by a child: I am sure, if they listen to this, Sweet women will quiver, and long To tenderly stoop to and kiss The Persia I've put in a song. And I'm certain the critic will pause, And excuse, for the sake of my bird, My sins against critical laws— The slips in the thought and the word. And haply some dear little face Of his own to his mind will occur— Some Persia who brightens his place— And I'll be forgiven for her. A life that is turning to grey Has hardly been happy, you see; But the rose that has dropped on my way Is morning and music to me. Yea, she that I hold by the hand Is changing white winter to green, And making a light of the land— All fathers will know what I mean: All women and men who have known The sickness of sorrow and sin, Will feel—having babes of their own— My verse and the pathos therein. For that must be touching which shows How a life has been led from the wild To a garden of glitter and rose, By the flower-like hand of a child. She is strange to this wonderful sphere; One summer and winter have set Since God left her radiance here— Her sweet second year is not yet. The world is so lovely and new To eyes full of eloquent light, And, sisters, I'm hoping that you Will pray for my Persia to-night. For I, who have suffered so much, And know what the bitterness is, Am sad to think sorrow must touch Some day even darlings like this! But sorrow is part of this life, And, therefore, a father doth long For the blessing of mother and wife On the bird he has put in a song.
Henry Kendall’s other poems:
