 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
6
THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.
There's a flower that grows by the greenwood tree,
In its desolate beauty more dear to me
Than all that bask in the noontide beam
Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream.
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing,
Its timid buds from the cold moss spring;
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,
Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell;
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.
It is not found by the garden wall,
It wreathes no brow in the festal hall;
But it dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,
And shines, like a star, in the solitude.
Never did numbers its name prolong,
Ne'er hath it floated on wings of song;
Bard and minstrel have passed it by,
And left it, in silence and shade, to die.
But with joy to its cradle the wild bees come,
And praise its beauty with drony hum;
And children love, in the season of spring,
To watch for its earliest blossoming.
In its desolate beauty more dear to me
Than all that bask in the noontide beam
Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream.
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing,
Its timid buds from the cold moss spring;
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,
Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell;
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.
It is not found by the garden wall,
It wreathes no brow in the festal hall;
But it dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,
And shines, like a star, in the solitude.
Never did numbers its name prolong,
7
Bard and minstrel have passed it by,
And left it, in silence and shade, to die.
But with joy to its cradle the wild bees come,
And praise its beauty with drony hum;
And children love, in the season of spring,
To watch for its earliest blossoming.
In the dewy morn of an April day,
When the traveler lingers along the way;
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green
Where rivulets water the earth, unseen;
When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,
And the budding leaves of the birch-trees throw
A trembling shade on the turf below;
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest,
And yields its lips to the sweet southwest,
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees
As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about, among lichens gray
And the tangled mosses beside the way,
Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye,
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.
When the traveler lingers along the way;
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green
Where rivulets water the earth, unseen;
When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,
And the budding leaves of the birch-trees throw
A trembling shade on the turf below;
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest,
And yields its lips to the sweet southwest,
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees
As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about, among lichens gray
8
Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye,
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.
For me, sweet blossom, thy tendrils cling
Round my heart of hearts as in childhood's spring;
And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.
Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-walks wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae,
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.
Round my heart of hearts as in childhood's spring;
And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.
Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-walks wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae,
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.
Now as I linger, mid crowds alone,
Haunted by echoes of music flown;
When the shadows deepen around my way,
And the light of reason but leads astray;
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
In the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When, weary of all that the world bestows,
I turn to nature for calm repose,
How fain my spirit, in some far glen,
Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!
Haunted by echoes of music flown;
When the shadows deepen around my way,
And the light of reason but leads astray;
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
In the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When, weary of all that the world bestows,
I turn to nature for calm repose,
How fain my spirit, in some far glen,
Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |