One soft June day, my thoughts, Touched by some song of bird, or glimpse of green, Returned to life's bright morning, and the Junes That flooded with their wealth of life and song The valley of my birth. Again I walked the meads, Brilliant with beaded grass, and heard the shrill, Sweet jargon of the meadow-birds. Again I trod the forest paths, in shade of trees With foliage so tender that the sun Shot through the soft, thin leaves its virid sheen, As through the emerald waters of the sea. The scarlet tanager--a flake of fire, Blown from the tropic heats upon the breath That brought the summer--caught upon a twig, Or quenched its glow in some remote recess. The springing ferns unfolded at my feet Their tan-brown scrolls, the tiny star-flower shone Among its leaves; the insects filled the air With a monotonous, reedy resonance Of whir and hum, and I sat down again Upon a bank, to gather violets. From dreams of retrospective joy I woke At last, to the quick tinkle of a bell. My wife had touched it. She had been asleep, And, waking, called me to her side. The note, Familiar as the murmur of her voice, For the first time was strange. Another bell, With other music, ran adown the years That lay between me and the golden day When, up the mountain-path, I followed far The lamb that bore it. All the scene came back In a broad flash; and with it came the same Strange apprehension of a mighty change-- A vague prevision of transition, born Of what, I knew not; on what errand sent, I could not guess. I rose upon my feet, Responsive to the summons, when I heard, Repeated in the ear of memory, The words my mother spoke to me that day: "My Paul has climbed the noblest mountain-height In all his little world, and gazed on scenes As beautiful as rest beneath the sun. I trust he will remember all his life That, to his best achievement, and the spot Closest to heaven his youthful feet have trod, He has been guided by a guileless lamb. It is an omen which his mother's heart Will treasure with her jewels." Had her tongue Been moved to prophecy? Omen of what?-- Of a new height of life to be achieved By my lamb's leading? Ay, it seemed like this! An answer to a thousand prayers, up-breathed By her whom I had lost, repeated long By her whom I was losing? Was it this? Thus charged with premonition, when I stepped Into the shaded room, my cheeks were pale, And every nerve was quivering with the stress Of uncontrolled emotion. Ah! my lamb! How white! How innocent! My lamb, my lamb! Even the scarlet ribbon which adorned The lambkin of my chase was at her throat, Repeated in a bright geranium-flower!