I know a hollow in the wood
Where spring her luring witchery weaves,
But now the winds have made of it
A lonely sepulchre of leaves;
Here Pan blows on his reeded pipes,
And for the summer grieves.
The desolation of the year
Is coming on apace, I know,
But still the everlasting’s pearls
Shine by the roadside, row on row;
And late bur-marigolds, like lamps,
In dark, lush places glow.
Still, still the tall wild asters stand
In lavender groups beside the way,
The sunlight’s fading splendor gilds
The white-veiled beryl of the bay;
And the last yellow violet
I found but yesterday.
Cross any little stream, and see
The brooklime’s tiny azure eyes!
Surely they stole that perfect hue
Right out of last June’s fairest skies,
And kept it hidden until now―
Just for a sweet surprise.
We hear the meadow-lark at morn,
With joy veined thro’ and thro’ with pain;
He knows the secret―how to lure
Our dear, lost springtimes back again,
And shake their sweetness thro’ his notes
Like drops of golden rain.
The dark and lonely winter days―
How soon, how soon they will be here!
But even the darkest one will hold
One small, pale blossom of good cheer;
And oh, the sweet things that will come
With the throb of another year!
“The Lingering of the Flowers” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).