In winter white and crystal-crossed
Your delicate boughs I saw again,—
Like lovely traceries the frost
Limns lightly on the window-pane.
Your every garment I have known,
Ye chestnuts grand that loom aloft,—
Save one to me you've never shown,
Of young green fabric first and soft.
Ah, well, good-bye, for I must go!
Keep, then, your flowers, where'er they be.
There is another flower I know,
That makes the springtime fair for me.
Let May with all her blooms arise,
Let May with all her blooms depart!
That flower sufficeth for mine eyes,
And hath pure honey in its heart.
Let be the season where it waits,
And blue or dull be heaven's dome—
It smiles and charms and captivates,—
The precious violet of my home!
A LAST WISH
How long my soul has loved thee, love!
It is full many a year agone.
Thy spring—what charm of flowers thereof,
My winter—what wild snows thereon!
White lilacs from the land of graves
Blow near my temples. Soon enow
Thou'lt mark the pallid mass that waves
Enshadowing my withered brow.
My westering sun must speedy drop,
And disappear behind the road.
Already on the dim hill-top,
There gleams and waits my last abode.