FAR in the soft warm west There lies an orchard-nest, Where every spring the black-caps come And build themselves a downy home. The apple-boughs entwine, And make a network fine Through which the morning vapours pass That rise from off the dewy grass. And when the spring-warmth shoots Along the apple roots, The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds That gleam and leaf in multitudes. And then, first cold and white, Soon flushing with delight, The blossom-heads come out and blow And mimic sunset-tinted snow. Just where my farmhouse ends A single gable bends, And one small window, ivy-bound, Looks into this enchanted ground. I sit there while I write, And dream in the dim light That floods the misty orchard through, A pale-green vapour tinged with blue And watch the growing year, The flowers that spring and peer, The apple-bloom that melts away, The colours of the changing day. The falling blossom fills The cups of daffodils, That loll their perfume-haunted heads Along the feathery parsley-beds. And then the young girls come To take the gold flowers home; They stand there, laughing, lilac-white, Within the orchard's green twilight. The rough old walls decay, And moulder day by day, The fern-roots tear them, stone by stone, The ivy drags them, overgrown; But still they serve to keep This little shrine of sleep Intact for singing birds and bees And lovers no less shy than these. Soft perfumes blown my way Remind me day by day How spring and summer flowers arrange Their aromatic interchange. For, in the still warm night, I taste the faint delight Of dim white violets that lie Far down in depths of greenery. And from the wild white rose That in my window blows, At dawn an odour pure and fine Comes drifting like the scent of wine. I live in flower and tree; My own life seems to me A fading trifle scarcely worth The notice of the jocund earth. Nor seems it strange indeed To hold the happy creed That all fair things that bloom and die Have conscious life as well as I. That not in vain arise The speedwell's azure eyes, Pure stars upon the river's brink, That shine unseen of us, and sink. That not for Man is made All colour, light and shade, All beauty ripened out of sight, But, -- to fulfil its own delight. The black-caps croon and swing Deep in the night, and sing No songs in which man's life is blent, But to embody their content. Then let me joy to be Alive with bird and tree, And have no haughtier aim than this -- To be a partner in their bliss. So shall my soul at peace From anxious carping cease, Fed slowly like a wholesome bud With sap of healthy thoughts and good. That when at last I die, No praise may earth deny, But with her living forms combine To chant a threnody divine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LENNIE SWENSON by KAREN SWENSON HIS LADY'S HAND by THOMAS WYATT AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCAEUS by WILLIAM JONES CANE: NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER by JEAN TOOMER THE CASE OF EDGAR ABBOTT AND PHILIP RIDD by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS PASSIO XL MARTYRUM by ARTHUR E. BAKER ON THE RANGE by BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE UPON MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND HIS GOING INTO ENGLAND, 1661 by ANNE BRADSTREET |