Norman Gale

1862.

A Song.

F

irst the fine, faint, dreamy motion

Of the tender blood

Circling in the veins of children—

This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty

Growing from the gloom,

Waking eyes and fuller bosom—

This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,

Grievous to be borne,

Pricking, steeped in subtle poison—

This is Love, the thorn.

Song.

W

ait but a little while—

The bird will bring

A heart in tune for melodies

Unto the spring,

Till he who ’s in the cedar there

Is moved to trill a song so rare,

And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while—

The bud will break;

The inner rose will ope and glow

For summer’s sake;

Fond bees will lodge within her breast

Till she herself is plucked and prest

Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while—

The maid will grow

Gracious with lips and hands to thee,

With breast of snow.

To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sown

A soul in her to match thine own,

Though yet ungrown.