Will bear him still toward insect, beast, and bird, Before the Adam in him has foregone All privilege of Eden,—making friends And talk, with such a bird or such a goat, And buying many a two-inch-wide rush-cage To let out the caged cricket on a tree, Saying, ‘Oh, my dear grillino, were you cramped? And are you happy with the ilex-leaves? And do you love me who have let you go? Say _yes_ in singing, and I’ll understand.’ But now the creatures all seemed farther off, No longer mine, nor like me; only _there_, A gulph between us. I could yearn indeed, Like other rich men, for a drop of dew To cool this heat,—a drop of the early dew, The irrecoverable child-innocence (Before the heart took fire and withered life) When childhood might pair equally with birds; But now ... the birds were grown too proud for us! Alas, the very sun forbids the dew. And I, I had come back to an empty nest, Which every bird’s too wise for. How I heard My father’s step on that deserted ground, His voice along that silence, as he told The names of bird and insect, tree and flower, And all the presentations of the stars Across Valdarno, interposing still ‘My child,’ ‘my child.’ When fathers say ‘my child,’ ’Tis easier to conceive the universe, And life’s transitions down the steps of law. I rode once to the little mountain-house As fast as if to find my father there, But, when in sight of’t, within fifty yards, I dropped my horse’s bridle on his neck And paused upon his flank. The house’s front Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian corn In tesselated order, and device Of golden patterns: not a stone of wall Uncovered,—not an inch of room to grow A vine-leaf. The old porch had disappeared; And, in the open doorway, sate a girl At plaiting straws,—her black hair strained away To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath her chin In Tuscan fashion,—her full ebon eyes, Which looked too heavy to be lifted so, Still dropt and lifted toward the mulberry-tree On which the lads were busy with their staves In shout and laughter, stripping all the boughs As bare as winter, of those summer leaves My father had not changed for all the silk In which the ugly silkworms hide themselves. Enough. My horse recoiled before my heart— I turned the rein abruptly. Back we went As fast, to Florence. That was trial enough Of graves. I would not visit, if I could, My father’s, or my mother’s any more, To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat So early in the race, or throw my flowers, Which could not out-smell heaven, or sweeten earth. They live too far above, that I should look So far below to find them: let me think That rather they are visiting my grave, This life here, (undeveloped yet to life)