By: Annie Fields



A BUNCH of lilacs there by the door;
That and no more!
Delicate, lily-white, like the new snow
Falling below;
A friend saw the flowers and brought them to me,
As one who should see
A trifle, a glove, but dropped and returned,
While a loving thought burned.

Dark all day was that room of mine,
Till those flowers divine
Into my darkness brought their own light,
And back to the sight
Of my spirit the happiest days of June
And the brooklet's tune; --

Where the old front door was left open wide,
While by my side
One sat, who, raising his eyes from the book
With the old fond look,
Asked if I loved not indeed that page
And the words of the sage.

And as we spoke, the cool blue sky,
The robin nigh,
The drooping blossoms of locust-trees
Humming with bees,
The budding garden, the season's calm,
Dropt their own balm.

All these, my friend, were brought back to me,
Like a tide of the sea,
When out of winter and into my room
Came summer's bloom:

The flowers reopened those shining gates
Where the soul waits
Many and many a day in vain,
While in the rain
We stand, and, doubting the future, at last
Forget the past.

So you will believe what a posy may do,
When friends are true,
For the sick at heart, in the wintry days,
When nothing allays
The restless hunger, the tears that start,
The weary smart,
But the old, old love, and the summer hush
And the lilac bush.


Annie Fields