The attitude, therefore, is not that of being bowed down and weeping hopeless tears, but of singing a commemorative hymn, in which the voices of nature join, and fits that exalted condition of the soul which serious events and the presence of death induce.
JOHN BURROUGHS
[I. WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D]
1
When lilacs last in the dooryard
bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the
western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with
ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to
me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping
star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night—O moody, tearful
night!
O great star disappear'd—O the black
murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless—
O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not
free my soul.
3
In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse
near the white-wash'd
palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with
heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising
delicate, with the perfume strong
I love,
With every leaf a miracle—and from
this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and
heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.