BIRDS in the green of my garden Blackbirds and throstle and wren, Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's And so to your singing again! Birds in my blossoming orchard, Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark, Preen your bright wings, little happy live things; The May trees grow white in the park! Birds in the leafy wet woodlands, Cuckoo and nightingale brown, Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground-- The rain on green leaves dripping down! Fresh with the rain of the May-time, Rich with the promise of June, Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part, Love, like a bird, sings in tune! V. TO IRIS. IF I might build a palace, fair With every joy of soul and sense, And set my heart as sentry there To guard your happy innocence-- If I might plant a hedge so strong No creeping sorrow could writhe through, And find my whole life not too long To give, to make your hedge for you-- If I could teach the wandering air To bring no sounds that were not sweet, Could teach the earth that only fair Untrodden flower deserved your feet: Would I not tear the secret scroll Where all your griefs lie closely curled, And give your little hand control Of all the joys of all the world? But ah! I have no skill to raise The palace, teach the hedge to grow; The common airs blow through your days, By common ways your dear feet go. And you must twine of common flowers The wreath that happy women wear, And bear in desolate darkened hours The common griefs that all men bear. The pinions of my love I fold Your little shoulders close about: Ah--could my love keep out the cold And shut the creeping sorrows out! Rough paths will tire your darling feet, Gray skies will weep your tears above, While round you still, in torment, beat The impotent wings of mother-love. TO A CHILD. (Rosamund.) The fairies have been busy while you slept; They have been laughing where the sad rain wept, They have taught Beauty to the ignorant flowers, Set tasks of hope to weary wind-torn bowers, And heard the lessons learned in school-rooms cold By seedling snapdragon and marigold. At dawn, while still you slept, I grew aware How good the fairies are, how many and fair. The fairy whose delightful gown is red Across a corner of our garden sped, And, where her flying raiment fluttered past, Its roseate reflection still is cast: Red poppies by the rhododendron's side, Paeonies gorgeous in their summer pride, And red may-bushes by the old red wall Shower down their crimson petals over all.