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When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd""
Newsletter Subscribe Give. Poetry Foundation. Back to Previous. By Walt Whitman. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,. Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,. O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 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,. The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,. Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,. Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,. Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,.
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,. Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,. Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,. With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,.
by Walt Whitman
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,. With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,. With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,. The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,. 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. 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,. For you and the coffins all of you O death. As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,. As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,. As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,. As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,. Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,.
The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,.
These and with these and the breath of my chant,. And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,. Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,. With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,. With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,. Ask tpshooz about Highland Park. Thank tpshooz. See all reviews. Recommended experiences in and around Rochester.
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When Lilacs Bloom'd
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When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d — Whitman
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Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,. I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,. Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,. Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.