It is not early spring and yet
Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,
And blotted banks of violet,
My heart will dream.
Is it because the wind-flower apes
The beauty that was once her brow,
That the white thought of it still shapes
The April now?
Because the wild-rose learned its blush
From her fresh cheeks of maidenhood,
Their thought makes June of barren brush
And empty wood?
And then I think how young she died—
Straight, barren death stalks down the trees,
The hard-eyed hours by his side
That kill and freeze.
II
When orchards are in bloom again
My heart will bound, my blood will beat,
To hear the red-bird so repeat,
On boughs of rosy stain,
His blithe, loud song,—like some far strain
From out the past,—among the bloom,—
(Where bee, and wasp, and hornet boom)—
Fresh, redolent with rain.
When orchards are in bloom once more,
Invasions of lost dreams will draw
My feet, like some insistent law,
Through blossoms to her door:
In dreams I’ll ask her, as before,
To let me help her at the well;
And fill her pail; and long to tell
My love as once of yore.
I shall not speak until we quit
The farm-gate, leading to the lane
And orchard, all in bloom again,
’Mid which the wood-doves sit
And coo; and through whose blossoms flit
The cat-birds crying while they fly:
Then tenderly I’ll speak, and try
To tell her all of it.
And in my dream again she’ll place
Her hand in mine, as oft before,—
When orchards are in bloom once more,—
With all her old-time grace:
And we will tarry till a trace
Of sunset dyes the heav’ns; and then—
We’ll part, and, parting, I again
Will bend and kiss her face.