TO LITTLE JEANNE

 ("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.") 
 
 {September, 1870.} 


 You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, 
 Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, 
 New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, 
 Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. 
 Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand 
 Whose pictures please you—while I trembling stand 
 To see their big leaves tattered by your hand— 
 Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth, 
 When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth 
 To welcome me. No work of author wise 
 Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, 
 And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, 
 Regarding man with all the boundless range 
 Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear 
 That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here. 
 
 Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings 
 Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, 
 You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, 
 When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven 
 When man no shadow feels: if fond caress 
 Round parent twines, children the world possess. 
 Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love 
 From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; 
 No wider range of view your heart can take 
 Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; 
 They two alone on this your opening hour 
 Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: 
 They two—none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, 
 Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by. 
 You come—I go: though gloom alone my right, 
 Blest be the destiny which gives you light. 
 
 Your fair-haired brother George and you beside 
 Me play—in watching you is all my pride; 
 And all I ask—by countless sorrows tried— 
 The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show 
 Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow. 
 
 Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life 
 Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife. 
 Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, 
 And baby smiles have dared a world at bay: 
 Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms 
 To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms. 
 Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear 
 You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, 
 And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, 
 I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, 
 Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan. 
 For though these hundred towers of Paris bend, 
 Though close as foundering ship her glory's end, 
 Though rocks the universe, which we defend; 
 Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, 
 God sends His blessing by a little child. 
 
 MARWOOD TUCKER. 


 

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...