Seven Times One by Day Noble
All my fond thoughts fly and furl,
Close their wings about your head.
May dear angels round you spread
Joy from morn to setting sun,—
For to-day you're "seven times one."
Winds that fly from you to me
Early, gently, ceaselessly,
Whisper, "We have seen her wake,
Gifts and kisses shyly take;
We have touched her dainty cheek,
Heard her gayly, sweetly speak
Of the day that makes her seven,—
Golden day from morn to even."
Down I wander to the glen,
Meeting whispers there again:
Leaves that shake, and waves that whirl,
Murmur of my birthday girl.
Soft the leaves are, like her hair,
And the brook-foam is as fair.
Over me the sapphire skies
Shine like her own gentle eyes.
Break, O brook, in bubbling laughter!
Only half you copy after
Her who came with morning sun,—
Her who now is "seven times one."
Little morning-glory child,
Bright as morn, as morning mild,
Twine and wreathe thy fragile soul,—
Delicate as the waves that roll
Here in rainbows to my feet,—
Twine and wreathe thee in our hearts,
Sheltered be from storm and smarts;
Cover us with dainty bloom;
In our love find sunny room
For thy dreams, songs, sallies mild,
Blessed morning-glory child!