TO A YOUNG POETESS.
If I were a young girl with a red cheek that blushes
And a poet's proud power,
I'd love better to sing from a nest like the thrush's
Than a prophet's star-tower.
Nought would I reck of the world's thunders that mutter,
Or the winds that thrones hurl,
But to each flower of the summer its name I would utter,
If I were a young girl.
I would dream in the air while the far bells were ringing,
I would laugh like the brook,
The linnet should be my sole master in singing,
The fields verdant my book.
I would there make my choice as in a rich casket,
Each white bud a pearl,
And then deck my lyre with the gems in my basket,
If I were a young girl.
To the weeds in the furrows, drone their songs the cicalas,
To the clouds skylarks call,
To the hearths sing the crickets, ghost-bards to Valhallas,
There are poets for all.
But my work would be better than a pedant's reflections,
For my muse would unfurl
The dreams of our sisters, their hid hopes, their elections,
If I were a young girl.
