Home Links Nature, the gentlest mother Will there really be a morning? At half-past three a single bird The day came slow, till five o’clock The sun just touched the morning The robin is the one From cocoon forth a butterfly Before you thought of spring Whose are the little beds, I asked Pigmy seraphs gone astray To hear an oriole sing One of the ones that Midas touched

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest,— Her admonition mild In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird. How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon,— Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower. When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky, With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.