TO THE WITCH-HAZEL.
“Last of their floral sisterhood,
The hazel’s yellow blossoms shine,
The tawny gold of Afric’s mind!”
J. G. Whittier.
I.
No mocking dream art thou of summer sun,
No fading shadow of the autumn’s gold;
Thy sunset stars their yellow light unfold
As some pale planet, when the day is done,
Giveth unfailing promise of the night
With its blessed hours of rest, its sparkling fields—
The glittering harvest that the darkness yields
Of unknown worlds far reaching out of sight.
In the year’s twilight thy pale blossoms shine
With faithful promise of the winter’s night—
The broad, white fields with nameless stars a-light,
The crystal glitter far outshining thine.
In the late daylight that about thee lies,
How soft thy radiance to sun-weary eyes!
II.
The brave arbutus fair foretold the spring
With gleam auroral of the coming slow
Of perfect summer’s full life’s noon-day glow,
With undimmed sunshine, earth illumining.
Thy stars, wan hazel, break amid the blaze
Of gold and scarlet wherewith burn the hills—
As when the pomp of royal burial fills
The clouded skies that mourn the dying days.
The gold grows spent, ashen the scarlet fires,
The night too near for any song of bird;
‘Mid voice of streams and rustling leaves, foot-stirred,
The grieving summer’s last earth-prayer expires.
Brighter thy glow as golden pomp grows sere,
O pale-hued Hesper of the westering year!
III.
No dreary harbinger art thou of woe,
Of barren days, and warm life lost in death:
On heav’n-kissed peaks is born the icy breath
Whose touch unfolds the flowers of the snow.
Spring’s buds, close-folded, lie along the bare
And shivering boughs where calls the wild-voiced wind,
And fine the leafless tracery is lined
On blue undimmed as summer heavens wear.
Hearts glow the warmer for the bitter wind,
Stars are but brighter for the frosty night,
Of earth despoiled love climbeth holy height,
New, blossoming paths her feet, untiring, find.
Thought of thy promise shining in dim skies
Fills darkest hour with lights of Paradise.
IV.
Among thy boughs almost the sound I hear
Of Christmas bells breaking on wintry gloom;
Foretelling so, the glimmer of thy bloom
The kindliest feast of all the saint-crowned year.
O happy year! that for its twilight crown
Wears the dim radiance of thy peaceful stars,
Hears song of angels, where no harsh note jars,
Filling the woods whence latest bird hath flown.
O wailing bloom! bud forth thy prophecies,
Thine earnest of a life fore’er renewed,
Thy light in darkness, with fair hope imbued,
Thy golden gift of love’s amenities.
O conjurer’s wand! thy jewelled staff bend low,
Show the bright waters living ‘neath the snow.