Eight Years Old

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.