Birth

Just when each bud was big with bloom,   And as prophetic of perfume, When spring, with her ight horoscope,   Was sweet as an unuttered hope; Just when the last star flickered out,   And twilight, like a soul in doubt, Hovered between the dark and dawn,   And day lay waiting to be born; Just when the gray and dewy air   Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer, And somewhere through the dusk she heard   The stirring of a nested bird,— Four angels glorified the place:   Wan Pain unveiled her awful face; Joy, soaring, sang; Love, ooding, smiled;   Peace laid upon her east a child.