Children of the Island

AND one brief season is their only year,
Summer illumines all and is their year,
Soon at the rumored breath of cold they fade,
Into fine air of which their breath is made.

Long have I wandered, seeking, seeking them,
Who are my spirit’s roots, the flower, the stem,
Only in sudden glimpses have I seen
Their white, their gold, their coral gleam,

Islanded in the sun — then disappear,
Since one brief season is their only year,
Lost as the wild rose in the long grass
Their half-seen images through watery glass.

Vision of childhood in the aging world,
So soon decays, so fades the flower-world,
The child heart printed on the mother’s heart,
The visions seen by fit and start.

For one brief season is their only year,
When sunken islands from the sea appear,
Crowned with deep light, the childish forms arise,
Bringing renewal to our fading eyes,

That laughter, softness, sweetness, and surprise,
Bright as bewildering airs from Paradise,
When swept by Time’s long wave, we drift, far, far,
From where the children of the island are.