Classic Poem

JANUARY.

Rain — hail — sleet — snow! — But in my East
This is the time when palm-trees quicken
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.

Palms, — he and she, — in sight they grow;
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted,
On light airs of the After-glow,
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.

Ah, happy trees! who feel no frost
Of winter-time, to chill your gladness;
And grow not close enough for cost
Of bliss fulfilled, which heightens sadness;

No gray reality's alloy
Your green ideal can diminish!
You have love's kiss, in all its joy,
Without love's lips, which let it finish!