Eight Years Old

I
Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears, Rise, let the time of year be May, Speak now the word that April hears, Let March have all his royal way; Bid all spring raise in winter's ears All tunes her children hear or play, Because the crown of eight glad years On one bright head is set to-day.
II
What matters cloud or sun to-day To him who wears the wreath of years So many, and all like flowers at play With wind and sunshine, while his ears Hear only song on every way? More sweet than spring triumphant hears Ring through the revel-rout of May Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears The music made of love at play, Or haply loves the tune he hears From hearts fulfilled with flowering May, Whose molten music thaws his ears Late frozen, deaf but yesterday To sounds of dying and dawning years, Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV
For deathward now lies winter's way Down the green vestibule of years That each year brightens day by day With flower and shower till hope scarce fears And fear grows wholly hope of May. But we—the music in our ears Made of love's pulses as they play The heart alone that makes it hears.
V
The heart it is that plays and hears High salutation of to-day. Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears Its own unworthiness to play Fit music for those eight sweet years, Or sing their blithe accomplished way. No song quite worth a young child's ears Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI
There beats not in the heart of May, When summer hopes and springtide fears, There falls not from the height of day, When sunlight speaks and silence hears, So sweet a psalm as children play And sing, each hour of all their years, Each moment of their lovely way, And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII
Ah child, what are we, that our ears Should hear you singing on your way, Should have this happiness? The years Whose hurrying wings about us play Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears Nought worse than sunlit showers in May, Being sinless as the spring, that hears Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII
Yet we too triumph in the day That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears, To lighten daylight, and to play Such notes as darkness knows and fears, The child whose face illumes our way, Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears, Whose hand is as the hand of May To bring us flowers from eight full years.
February 4, 1882.