First Miracle
There was a time when Mother Nature made
My soul’s sun, and my soul’s shade.
A cloud in the sky could take away
The song in my heart for all day,
And a little lark in a willow-tree
Would mean happiness to me.
My moods would mirror all her whims;
Trees were my strength: their limbs, my limbs.
But, oh, my mother tortured me,
Blowing with wind, and sighing with sea.
I flamed, I withered, I blossomed, I sang,
With her I suffered pang for pang,
Until I said: “I will grow my own tree
Where no natural wind will bother me.”
And I grew me a willow of my own heart’s strength,
With my will for its width, and my wish for its length:
And I made me a bird of my own heart’s fire,
To sing my own sun, and my own desire.
And a vast white circle came in the air,
And the winds around said, “Don’t blow there.”
I said, “Blow on–blow, blow, blow, blow,
Fill all the sky, above, below,
With tempest, and sleet, and silence, and snow!
”Wherever I go, no matter where,
My bird and my willow-tree are there.
“However you frown, no matter how,
I will sing as I am singing now.”
