Persia

I am writing this song at the close     Of a beautiful day of the spring     In a dell where the daffodil grows     By a grove of the glimmering wing;     From glades where a musical word     Comes ever from luminous fall,     I send you the song of a bird     That I wish to be dear to you all.     I have given my darling the name     Of a land at the gates of the day,     Where morning is always the same,     And spring never passes away.     With a prayer for a lifetime of light,     I christened her Persia, you see;     And I hope that some fathers to-night     Will kneel in the spirit with me.     She is only commencing to look     At the beauty in which she is set;     And forest and flower and brook,     To her are all mysteries yet.     I know that to many my words     Will seem insignificant things;     But you who are mothers of birds     Will feel for the father who sings.     For all of you doubtless have been     Where sorrows are many and wild;     And you know what a beautiful scene     Of this world can be made by a child:     I am sure, if they listen to this,     Sweet women will quiver, and long     To tenderly stoop to and kiss     The Persia Ive put in a song.     And Im certain the critic will pause,     And excuse, for the sake of my bird,     My sins against critical laws     The slips in the thought and the word.     And haply some dear little face     Of his own to his mind will occur     Some Persia who brightens his place     And Ill be forgiven for her.     A life that is turning to grey     Has hardly been happy, you see;     But the rose that has dropped on my way     Is morning and music to me.     Yea, she that I hold by the hand     Is changing white winter to green,     And making a light of the land     All fathers will know what I mean:     All women and men who have known     The sickness of sorrow and sin,     Will feel having babes of their own     My verse and the pathos therein.     For that must be touching which shows     How a life has been led from the wild     To a garden of glitter and rose,     By the flower-like hand of a child.     She is strange to this wonderful sphere;     One summer and winter have set     Since God left her radiance here     Her sweet second year is not yet.     The world is so lovely and new     To eyes full of eloquent light,     And, sisters, Im hoping that you     Will pray for my Persia to-night.     For I, who have suffered so much,     And know what the bitterness is,     Am sad to think sorrow must touch     Some day even darlings like this!     But sorrow is part of this life,     And, therefore, a father doth long     For the blessing of mother and wife     On the bird he has put in a song.