Trailing Arbutus

Rose Terry Cooke (1827–1892)

DARLINGS of the forest!

Blossoming, alone,

When Earth’s grief is sorest

For her jewels gone—

Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,

Like the morning sky,

Or, more pale and saintly,

Wrapped in leaves ye lie—

Even as children sleep in faith’s simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin,

Hymns your solitude;

And the rain comes sobbing

Through the budding wood,

While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.

Were your pure lips fashioned

Out of air and dew,

Starlight unimpassioned,

Dawn’s most tender hue,

And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,

From the world apart;

Made for beauty only,

Veiled from Nature’s heart

With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

An immortal shade,

Then would I to-morrow

Such a flower be made,

And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.