Flora Shufelt Rivola

I SIT in the shade of a tree and sing

Unto this wee, mysterious thing

Upon my breast—my own, and yet

How could I more than I beget?

At the feather-touch of searching lips.

Of tiny, groping finger-tips,

I know the surge of something more,

Deeper within than lived before;

As though, when this was come to birth,

A largess, more of heaven than earth,

Enriched my spirit, making me

A part of all Infinity.

I am akin to this old tree,

Yet of a richer destiny:

Its shining leaves sing in the sun

As I unto my little one;

We share creation’s leap and thrill,

Yet hold I something stranger still.

What is this flaming tenderness?

What summons me to this caress?

O Power that gave, make my love strong!

The sleeper stirs; again my song

Stills him to dreaming—dreams of what?—

Things I knew once and have forgot?

Akin to all these growing things

My eager spirit sunward springs;

And deep I sink my roots, and deeper,

With each soft breath of the wee sleeper!