Friday, April 18, 2008


IF the bird knew how through the wintry weather

An empty nest would swing by day and night,

It would not weave the strands so close together

Or sing for such delight.

And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking

How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart,

Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching

Within its golden heart.

If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses

Knew of drowned sailors–and of storms to be–

Methinks 'twould wait a little e'er it passes

To meet the old grey sea.

If youth could understand the tears and sorrow,

The sombre days that age and knowledge bring,

It would not be so eager for the morrow

Or spendthrift of the spring.

If love but learned how soon life treads its measure,

How short and swift its hours when all is told,

Each kiss and tender word 'twould count and treasure,

As misers count their gold.

Virna Sheard