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,
To the bird, the beast, the tree:
" Why are ye all so happy? "
I cried, and they answered me.

What sayst thou, O meadow,
That stretchest so wide, so far,
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
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. "

What sayst thou, O shadow,
That from the dreaming hill
All down the broadening valley
Liest so sharp and still?
And thou, O murmuring brooklet,
Whereby in the noonday gleam
The loosestrife burns like ruby,
And the branched asters dream?
" We are born, we are reared, and we linger
A various space and die;
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,
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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