No turquoise from the amber deep,
Of sunless caves where Peris sleep,
Whose portals watchful dragons keep,
Hath such a heaven hue;
For e'en the very bloom of flax
And misletoe's white bud of wax
Its fragile delicacy lacks,
And violets its blue.
It bloometh ever in the fall,
Dotting over Summer's pall,
With a starry coronal,
Like Autumn's milky way!
Blooming in the bitter blast,
When red leaves are raining fast,
And flowers on the earth are cast,
And Nature breathes decay.
When all the birdy woods are dumb,
Plants dead, save the chrysanthemum,
This "Farewell Summer" then doth come,
To greet the season last;
When Summer's flying skirt afar
Fades like a distant golden star,
And Winter's gate with icy bar
Admits the freezing blast.
While feathery snow, whirled round and round
Whitens the hills and fallow ground,
And spreads its shroud without a sound,
Upon the Autumn's corse.
The frosty fences silvered all,
The ice-chains hang at waterfall,
And sighing dirges funeral,
Hark! spirits of the Norse!
Then, Farewell Summer, thou alone
Dost sit, and smile, without a moan,
When friends are dead, the season flown,
Thou earth-star of the pole!
Thus I have seen the dearest die,
Yet lacked thy calm philosophy,
Which brooks the tear-stream in the eye,
And fortifies the Soul!
Frail Farewell Summer! gentle guest!
Thou smilest welcome from the West!
Thou, in thy bonnie blue cap drest,
Shalt live within my heart;
With memories of Ohio's shore,
My childhood's home, which I adore!
Blest be ye all, for evermore,
Till life's last day depart!
In my own dear West there groweth
Certain "Sweet Knots" on the trees,
And their perfume gently floweth
Like a stream into the breeze,
Till the very air oppressed
Seems of rare ambrosial spice,
Fanned by wings of angels blessed
From the groves of Paradise.
One may walk our forest bowers,
In this viewless cloud of sweets,
And forget the thousand flowers
Gaily dressed in those retreats.
For this fragrance permeateth
All the air, like golden beams,
And within the sense createth
New and strange delightful dreams.
Yet 'tis not the painted flowers,
Nor the yellow spicewood's bloom, Nor the wild vine's musky bowers,
Which exhales this rare perfume;
But, upon some tall tree clinging
This Sweet Knot doth ever grow,
Where red orioles are singing
'Mid white berried mistletoe.
There a homely, brown excresence
This rich Sweet Knot doth distil,
Wondrous, strange, enchanting essence,
Which the wide, wide wood doth fill.
As in crimson coral haunting,
Certain workers in it dwell
And pour out this stream enchanting
From each incense-breathing cell.
Thus so silent, unpretending,
Modest, plain, and all unseen,
Sit these hidden fairies, sending
Airy joy through that demesne.
But if rifted from its station
It be borne away, a prize
For the crowd's vain approbation
All its magic sweetness dies!
For its fragrance only blesses
Where no ruthless steps intrude,
In the sacred wildernesses,
With the fawn-eyed solitude.
There, alone, the hermit lover
Of the lonesome forest glade,
Fails not ever to discover
Where 'tis hidden in the shade.
And from Sweet Knot aromatic,
As its odors load the air,
Drinks he balmy bliss ecstatic,
Breathes for it a silent prayer.
Where the proper application
Of this wonder should be made,
Needs no word of explanation
When thy due deserts are paid,
For the secret virtues working
In each recess of thy mind
In unassuming merit lurking,
Send goodness out on every wind.
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