The Flower That Makes The Springtime

The chestnut trees are soon to flower At fair Saint Jean, the villa dipped In sun, before whose viny tower Stretch purple mountains silver-tipped.

The little leaves that yesterday Pressed in their bodices were seen Have put their sober garb away, And touched the tender twigs with green.

But vainly do the sunbeams fill The branches with a flood of light. The shy bud hesitateth still To show the secret thyrse of white.

And yet the rosy peach-tree blooms, Like some faint blush of first desire. The apple waves a wealth of plumes, And laughs in all its fresh attire.

To bask amid the buttercups The timid speedwell ventures out. Nature calls every earthling up, And reassures each tiny sprout.

Yet I must off to other sphere! Then please your poet, chestnuts tall, Yea, spread ye forth without a fear Your firework bloom fantastical!

I know your summer splendour's pride. I've seen you standing sumptuous In autumn's tunics purple-dyed, With golden circlets luminous.

In winter white and crystal-crossed Your delicate boughs I saw again,-- Like lovely traceries the frost Limns lightly on the window-pane.

Your every garment I have known, Ye chestnuts grand that loom aloft,-- Save one to me you've never shown, Of young green fabric first and soft.

Ah, well, good-bye, for I must go! Keep, then, your flowers, where'er they be. There is another flower I know, That makes the springtime fair for me.

Let May with all her blooms arise, Let May with all her blooms depart! That flower sufficeth for mine eyes, And hath pure honey in its heart.

Let be the season where it waits, And blue or dull be heaven's dome-- It smiles and charms and captivates,-- The precious violet of my home!