The Fourth Birthday

Four years, long years, and full of strange event
To thee, sweet boy, though brief and bare to me,

Of thy young days make up the complement,
And far out-date thy little memory.

How many tears have dropp'd since thou wert born,
Some on the cradle, some upon the grave !

Yet having thee, thy father, not forlorn.
Felt he had something yet of God to crave.

For who hath aught to love, and loves aright,
Will never in the darkest strait despair ;
For out of love exhales a living light,
A light that speaks — a light whose breath is prayer.

Sorrow hath been within thy dwelling, child,
Yet sorrow hath not touch'd thy delicate bloom ;
So, the low floweret in Arabian wild

Grows in the sand, nor fades in the simoom.
What thou hast lost thou know'st not, canst not know,
Too young to wonder when thy elders moan ;

Thou haply think'st that adult eyes can flow
With tears as quick and transient as thine own.
The swift adoption of an infant's love
Gives to thy heart all infant hearts require ;

Unfelt by thee, the mortal shaft that clove
In twain thy duty, left thy love entire.
Ne'er be thy birthday as a day unblest.
Which thou or thine might wish had never been ;

But in thine age, a quiet day of rest,
A sabbath, holy, thoughtful, and serene.