The Trailing Arbutus.
John G. Whittier.
I wandered lone where the pine trees made
Against the east their barricade;
And, guided by its sweet
Perfume, I found within a narrow dell
The trailing spring flower, tinted like a shell,
Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines
Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines
Lifted their glad surprise,
While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees
His feathers, ruffled by chill sea breeze,
And snowdrifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing, o’er the lowly flowers I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day,
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.