To 



MY EARLIEST TEACHER IN NATURAL HISTORY 



MY (MOTHER 



The voice that M me at the first 

 To follow Nature where she moved 



In lips of orchis lightly pursed. 

 Or ripples that the swallow loved; 



In jewelled web, in glittered sky, 



In painted poppy princely raised. 

 In flashings of the dragon-fly, 



Rings yet its music. God be praised. 



Then this, dear Lady (this that brings 



No reasoned lore, and erudite. 

 Nor any deep imaginings, 



But only picture-touches — light 



As songs of summer tossed about 

 From forest breath to forest breath — 



Of gentle peoples playing out 

 The fateful round of life and death) 



This, Lady, on thy birthday take, 



And love a little shall achieve 

 For all the gracious days that make 



The radiance of a golden eve. 



