For mourning spring and other things, a cone of wafting lilacs and four sprigs of Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd:
1.
When lilacs last in the door-yard 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.
3.
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house, 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.
4.
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)
7.
(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,
O death I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and coffins all of you O death.)
7 maids a-milking:
"a sprig with its flower i break"
what a lovely poem.
thank you.
"a sprig with its flower i break"
what a lovely poem.
thank you.
Be still my heart.
Good blogging my friend
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This was nice to see. On the left of my backyard, there's a row of lilacs. We leave the window open at night, and the next morning it smells of the flowers. And when the breeze passes into the kitchen, you can smell the lilacs. Along my street, too, there are a few lilac and blossom trees and just passing under them, you can smell them. It's so delicate.
Whitman, on the other hand... well. Let's just say I don't like him as much. And if he had a scent, I wouldn't keep my window open. He's quite... verbal.
Great blog you have here, if you’re interested here is the link to my blog of poetry.
http://thehumanicana.blogspot.com/
Or my facebook page
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Poetry-By-Grant-Grey-Guda/399397276060?v=wall
Hoping you have a wonderful week filled with inspiration and laughter,
Grant-Grey
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