THE
SWEETNESS OF LIFE
It fell on
a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
The flowers and the beasts in the meadow
Seemed happy even as I;
And I stretched my hands to the meadow,
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To the bird, the beast, the
tree:
"Why are ye all so happy?"
I cried, and they answered me.
What sayest
thou, Oh meadow,
That stretches so wide, so far,
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That none can say how many
Thy misty marguerites are?
And what say ye, red roses,
That o’er the sun-blanched wall
From your high black-shadowed trellis
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Like flame or blood—drops fall?
"We are
born, we are reared, and we linger
A
various space and die;
We dream,
and are bright and happy,
But
we cannot answer why."
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What sayest
thou, Oh shadow,
That from the dreaming hill
All down the broadening valley
Liest so sharp and still?
And thou, Oh murmuring brooklet,
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Whereby in the noonday gleam
The loosestrife burns like ruby,
And the branched arsters dream?
"We are
born, we are reared, and we linger
A
various space and die;
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We dream and
are very happy,
But
we cannot answer why."
And then
of myself I questioned,
That like a ghost the while
Stood from me and calmly answered,
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With slow and curious smile:
"Thou art born as the flowers, and wilt linger
Thine own short space and die;
Thou dream’st and art strangely happy,
But thou canst not answer why."
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