With reborn grass and faint mock orange,
A half-mad god sent storm winds low,
And wrenched him from his cradling nest.
Beneath the splintered tree he lay,
Cold, benumbed, on stone-paved path,
Until, rain-streaked, she came and wrapped
Him in her fireside’s golden glow.
The days brought butterflies; flowers
Dipped in sunshine, and bright hope
That he, with mended wings, might soon
Float in a sea of summer clouds.
Now gentle breezes brush his wings
Above sunlit house and nodding trees;
And as the day retreats to night
She listens for his song of joy.