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Robert Laurence Binyon - One Year Old
Work rating: Medium

Is it we that are wise, is it we,
 Who have bought with a price of grief
 A wisdom seldom free
 From scorn or disbelief,
 Who find this world fulfil
 An end that is not our will,
 Who toil with the light in our eyes
 Showing us scarce begun
 The things we meant to have done,
 Is it we, is it we, that are wise?

 Or O, is it you, is it you,
 That have yet no language of ours,
 But whose eyes are a laughter blue
 As of light slipping under the showers,
 Whose carol, sweeter than words,
 Trills clear as an April bird`s,
 Or a dancing brook on the hill,--
 Blithe springs of a confidence
 That bubbles, we know not whence,
 And has no knowledge of ill?

 Lo, our desires have gone
 Like ships to a future far
 And vanished in mist alone
 By no befriending star.
 But all to you is a wonder
 Fresh as the sky, whereunder
 Life moves to pledge delight;
 You need no hope to bear
 The day through the day`s care;
 Your joys are all in sight.

 You want not a word to tell
 What lies beyond our guess
 And springs like a sparkling well
 In a lovely speechlessness.
 And we that have shaped with art
 Language of mind and of mart,
 We have never yet found speech
 For the heart`s blood deepest stirred:
 Something is flown with a word
 Or is buried beneath our reach.

 Our speech is spun from the pain
 Of thought and heavy with years,
 And dyed with an ancient stain
 From passion and blood and tears.
 But O, I vow, when I hear
 Your wordless carol clear,
 I would cast this speech that endures
 As a sorry old patchwork coat,
 Could I but re--fill my throat
 With the liquid joy in yours.
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