Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/336

308 It only seems

One night of dreams;

Years they say; how do they plan it?

What's become of Little Janet?

Never mind;

She's good; she's kind;

Age can never bend or win her;

There's a heart of youth within her.

ON BEING ASKED FOR A SONG

CONCERNING THE DEDICATION OF A MOUNTAIN IN SAMOA TO THE MEMORY OF STEVENSON

A Letter to I. O. S.

, friend of mine,—and his,—I am afraid!

How can I make a song

When the true song is made!

For this you say:

Because that Tusitala loved the birds,

They who named Tusitala (weaver of charmèd words—

Teller of Tales)

Have given his mountain to the birds forever!

There all day long

Bright-plumaged island-birds make gay the dales,

From off the sea the swift white bosun over the mountain sails,

From many a large-leaved tree

The gray dove cooes its low, insistent song.

From those green hights and vales

They shall be absent never—

To show what love can be from man to man.

Lovers of Birds and Poets—this is glory!

It is a poem,—that which these Chiefs have done,—