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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=456008" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode To A Child</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">BRIGHT as a morn of spring,<br>That jubilates along the earth,<br>With clouds, and winds, and flowers rejoicing,<br>And all the creatures that on wing<br>Scarce dip the ground in their ethereal mirth.<br>Whilst the dew'd sunlight and the gold-flushed rain<br>Wed midway in the air;<br>And from the twain<br>Is ever born that fairy gossamer,<br>The iridescent bridge that spans the skies.<br>Yea, e'en in such wild glory dost thou glow<br>Soul-fresh exuberant child!<br>And drops of heavenly freshness gleam<br>On red, red lips, in dark-orbed eyes,<br>Like morning dews that glimmering show<br>On winter moss and heath'ry wild,<br>And soft-cropped grasses undefiled,<br>In all the shifting splendour of a dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, thou, that in thy glee<br>Know'st of no ending yet, and no beginning,<br>Making the hours melodious with thy play,<br>Like grasshoppers, that through the livelong day<br>Hopping on the new-mown hay,<br>Sun-struck trill their roundelay;<br>Or the cricket, chirping cheerly<br>Late at night, at morning early,<br>With a little baby-singing<br>Like an echo faintly ringing<br>From the distant summer leas;<br>And with tremulous murmurs clinging<br>Round the hearth, like clustering bees<br>Humming round the linden trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet athwart thy soul,<br>At times, perchance, I seem to see<br>The hid existence of far off events, <br>Trailing their slumb'rous shadows silently.<br>For in the dusky deeps<br>Of thy large eyes <br>Sometime the veilèd outline of a still<br>And mute-born vision sleeps<br>As in the hollows of a hill,<br>With dim and darksome rents<br>The dreamful shadow of the morning lies,<br>And softly, slowly, ever down doth roll,<br>Till lost in mystic deeps it flees our watchful eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet from that silent trance<br>Quick leap'st thou back into thy playfulness,<br>As waters darkened by the drifting cloud<br>Into the swift sweet sunlight crowd,<br>Where dashed with dewy gold they dance<br>In unbedimmèd sprightliness;<br>Till with their blithesome strain<br>They make the brooding mountains loud<br>And fling their merriment across the voiceless plain.<br>And buzzing lightly, here and there,<br>Thou, like a little curious fly<br>That fusses through the air,<br>Dost pry and spy<br>With thy keen inquisitive eye;<br>Poking fatly-dimpled fingers<br>Into corner, box, and closet,<br>Where, perchance, there hidden lingers<br>Some deposit,<br>To be carried off triumphantly.<br>And with many questions, ever<br>Rippling like a restless river,<br>Puzzling many an older brain,<br>Dost thou hour by hour increase thy store<br>Of marvellous lore.<br>Thus a squirrel darting deftly<br>Up and down autumnal trees,<br>Sees its hoard of chesnuts growing swiftly<br>In a heap upon the leaf-strewn leas.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yea, open art thou to each influence<br>That strikes on thy soft spirit from without<br>Thy spirit not yet frozen, nor shut out<br>From nature's kindling breath<br>By selfish aims, nor dulled the sense<br>By hot desires; alas, too oft the death<br>Of man's spiritual vision. No, thy soul<br>Is yet all clear and bright<br>And lieth naked 'neath the eye of heaven<br>As a small mountain pool--<br>A pure and azure pool,<br>To whom its food is given<br>By dews, and rains, and snows all lily-white,<br>That softly fall<br>Through many a summer's day and winter's night;<br>And whose unspotted breast<br>Glasses each pageant of the outer world,<br>The cloud with pinions to the blast unfurled,<br>The mountains' haughty crest,<br>The slanting beam of twilight skies<br>That like a golden ladder lies<br>Stretching across perchance for angel hosts<br>To slide<br>Down to the earth with heavenly boon;<br>And glasses too the hurrying mists that glide<br>Like gliding ghosts,<br>And stars, and all the mildness of the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As yet 'tis early January with thee!<br>Warm-cradled doth the summer leaf<br>Lie folded in the winter leaf<br>On the blank tree.<br>And folded in the earth the seed<br>The future mother of some glorious weed,<br>Or flower blowing gorgeously,<br>Or cedar branching wondrously,<br>Lies slumbering; its whole destiny<br>Of great or lowly, foul or fair,<br>In this minutest space surely foreshadowed there.<br>But let the west wind, ocean-born,<br>Floating towards the meads of morn,<br>But once spread out his wild and vasty wing<br>Setting the sap a-cantring; till new life<br>Works wonders: then thy being <br>Will strangely stir, as at the sound<br>Of sounding drum and fife<br>The war-horse paws the ground.<br>And through thy sweet pure veins<br>Life like a waterfall will grandly bound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now the Psyche of thy being<br>Still shyly doth essay her delicate wing,<br>Like to that airy nurseling of the sun<br>When first it breaketh through its dun<br>And hornèd shell, and tries<br>To move its pinions, powdered o'er and o'er<br>With rainbow dust of April skies,<br>That have as not yet learnt to soar,<br>And lie soft-folded in sweet mysteries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! looking on thee, I do speculate<br>On thy futurity!<br>What wilt thou be?<br>Some great and glorious lot I dream for thee,<br>Some starry fate!<br>For in thy nature meet<br>Such buoyant strength, and such a sweet<br>Half-veiled heart tenderness, that on thy being doth rest<br>Like soft dark bloom upon a pansy's breast;<br>And pity gushes o'er thee, like warm rain,<br>For everything in pain,<br>Or great or small; and such a shoal<br>Of thick-bred fancies ever swimmeth forth<br>From the deep sea<br>Of changeful fantasy,<br>Like golden fish that glitter in the sun;<br>And quick perception leading on and on,<br>Into a maze of thought, fresh'ning the soul<br>Of him who listens. Aye, what wilt thou be?<br>Perchance, one of that sacred band<br>That ever were the salt of earth,<br>Whom men call dowered with genius! They who stand<br>In grandeur and in glory like the Alps,<br>With silver-shining scalps,<br>Bathed in the ether; feeding all the land<br>With the pure skyey waters that descend<br>For ever from them; men who freed<br>From narrow bonds of hate and greed,<br>Fetters of custom, and blind circumstance,<br>Breathe the soul-quickening air of thought and love.<br>And struggling into freedom, sudden see<br>The solid shroud of sense<br>Consumèd by a heavenly flame, <br>As is the vapour dense and dun,<br>Which the earth-spirit fast doth breed<br>By the great sun.<br>And the large mind in native majesty<br>Doth catch that radiance evermore above,<br>Around us; finest effluence of being;<br>Illuminating with sharp sudden blaze<br>Nature's mysterious ways;<br>Until his spirit, feeling itself one<br>With all that is, and was, and is to be,<br>Vibrates into intenser life,<br>Which is creation!<br>Then makes he revelation<br>Of that one truth, that as a supreme ray<br>With new existence heavily fraught,<br>Lightened in awful loveliness<br>And empyrean holiness,<br>Upon his passive thought;<br>Till with long peals of explosive oracular thunder,<br>He bursts and cleaves and splinters asunder<br>The clinging clinking manacles of life,<br>That fall and curl in harsh black masses under<br>His wingèd feet: and through time's noisy strife<br>His infinite acts do strike like flame</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of a volcano seen across a sea,<br>On nights when with earthquake the labouring hills are rife;<br>And labouring, too, like heaving heights, doth he,<br>Girt round with turbulent whirls of praise and blame, <br>Breathe the hot spark of that which he did see,<br>As vital force that pulses strong and warm<br>In the mid-heart of creeds,<br>Or rolls itself along the epic's flood,<br>Or lives through ages in the marbled form,<br>Or leaps to life in the heroic deeds,<br>Watering with the heart's noble blood<br>The seed of future world-reforming good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But stay, my soul;<br>Too far thou fliest, as a falcon flies,<br>Forgetful of the hand<br>Where he must perch, so trancèd with the grand<br>And boundless skies.<br>Oh come my song, and roll<br>Thy billows back, where on the swelling bank,<br>Mid flowers, and reeds, and grasses rank,<br>And feathered warblers, warbling wild,<br>Sporteth the unconscious child,<br>Safely roofed o'er by shielding mother's love,<br>Like wee lamb-clouds of morn by tender skies above.<br>Hark! now I hear thy low soft laughter falling<br>Upon my heart, like to the murmurous calling<br>Of brooding stock doves, now it sweet doth sound<br>Like rippling rills of rain, that make the ground <br>Harmonious on hot summer afternoons;<br>And now thy joyous croons<br>Blither and brighter tumble on my ear<br>All clarion clear,<br>Like songs of matin birds that in spring weather,<br>Hid in young woods, do jubilate together.<br>Yea, on the musing mind,<br>That wrapt in meditation's sober dress,<br>Looks inward in a half-forgetfulness<br>Of the world's outer show,<br>Thou breakest in, like a tumultuous wind<br>That teasing tosses <br>The foam of flickering fountain;<br>Or like the flashing flow<br>Of waves of light along the long green grasses;<br>Or waters bickering low<br>Down many a sloping mountain<br>That make themselves a nest mid ferns and shining mosses.<br>Of each free thing that in its joy<br>All chains, and bonds, and obstacles o'erpasses<br>In elemental gladsomenesses<br>And wonderful wild wantonesses--<br>Fire, water, wand'ring air,<br>Hast a past, exuberant boy, <br>Glorious, glad, and fresh, and fair,<br>And blowing in upon the tired brain<br>Nature's undying, spirit-stirring strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mathilde+Blind">Mathilde Blind</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=456008" data-title="Ode To A Child de Mathilde Blind" data-description="BRIGHT as a morn of spring,
That jubilates along the earth,
With clouds, and winds, and flowers rejoicing,
And all the creatures that on wing
Scarce dip the ground in their ethereal mirth.
Whilst the dew'd sunlight and the gold-flushed rain
Wed mi..."></div>
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