Classic Poem

When tree and bush are comfortless,
And fields are piteous bare,
A garden blooms upon my hearth,
And it is summer there.

From the gray log's quiescent length
Burst the bright flowers of flame, —
Like the far flashings of the stars,
Too rare for earthly name.

Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt,
Their petals softly blow;
Now clear as water in the sun,
When the blue sky lies below.

And daintily they toss and sway
To the breath of soundless airs, —
The memories of wooing winds
That made the forest theirs.

O for the secret that the sun
Shares with the burning tree!
Elusive sweet as the witching flow
Of water to the sea.

In thought I grasp the mystic word,
And lo! it hath no form.
I only know 'tis dark without,
And here 'tis light and warm.