  Oh bud and leaf and blossom, How beautiful they are! Than last year's vernal season 'Tis lovelier by far; This earth was never so enchanting Nor half so bright before— But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime, For forty years or more. What luxury of color On shrub and plant and vine, From pansies' richest purple To pink of eglantine; From buttercups to "johnny-jump-ups," With deep cerulean eyes, Responding to their modest surname In violet surprise. That gilds the emerald hills, And makes Aladdin dwellings Of dingy domiciles, Is surplus beauty overflowing That Heaven cannot hold— The topaz glitter, or the jacinth, The glare of streets of gold. In "Cedar Hill," the city Of "low green tents" of sod, I read the solemn record Of those gone home to God; While from their hallowed dust arising The fragrant lilies grow As if their life was all the sweeter For those who sleep below. And so 'tis not in sadness I dwell upon the thought, When I am dead and buried That I shall be forgot. Because the germ of reproduction Doth this poor body hold, Perchance to add to nature's beauty A rose above the mold. |
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