Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/234

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I were a young girl with a red cheek that blushes
 * And a poet's proud power,

I'd love better to sing from a nest like the thrush's
 * Than a prophet's star-tower.

Nought would I reck of the world's thunders that mutter,
 * Or the winds that thrones hurl,

But to each flower of the summer its name I would utter,
 * If I were a young girl.

I would dream in the air while the far bells were ringing,
 * I would laugh like the brook,

The linnet should be my sole master in singing,
 * The fields verdant my book.

I would there make my choice as in a rich casket,
 * Each white bud a pearl,

And then deck my lyre with the gems in my basket,
 * If I were a young girl.

To the weeds in the furrows, drone their songs the cicalas,
 * To the clouds skylarks call,

To the hearths sing the crickets, ghost-bards to Valhallas,
 * There are poets for all.

But my work would be better than a pedant's reflections,
 * For my muse would unfurl

The dreams of our sisters, their hid hopes, their elections,
 * If I were a young girl.