Voice of Flowers/Blossoms falling from Fruit-trees
BLOSSOMS FALLING FROM THE FRUIT-TREES.
The world doth take us captive with its wiles
Of vanity or pleasure. So our thoughts
Are scarce in unison with Nature's grief,
When her sweet blossoms fade.
Yon stricken trees,
From whence glad Autumn gathereth plenteous store
Of ruddy apples for the wintry eve,
Resign their radiant robes, and rich perfume,
That made the orchard like a queen's levee.
And clad in russet garments, fleck'd with green,
Lamenting, teach the philosophic lore
Of brief prosperity.
That lofty pine,
Which, like some feudal baron from his tower,
Did awe the neighboring peasantry of shrubs,
Deplores that they should see his boasted wealth
Stripp'd by each robber breeze.
A tint like snow, from the young Almond's charms
Strew'd lavishly around; while, sick at heart,
The Peach, despairing mother, sees her babes
Dead at her feet.
Break forth in song, ye birds,
From your cool nests, or on the buoyant wing,
And be their comforters.
Uphold their hearts
With cheering descant of the season's prime,
When their bereavement shall be lost in joy.
Tell them that man, their culturer, oft beholds
His beauty and his pride, like theirs, depart;
But yet, from what he counted loss, doth reap
A more enduring gain.
Yea, bid them bide
In faith and hope, the chastening of this hour,
Yielding their fragrance to the tyrant winds—
For God remembereth them.
Lift high your strain,
Minstrels of Heaven, and ask the sorrowing trees
If those pale petals fell not, where would be
The glory of their fruitage? or the praise
Of the Great Master at the Harvest Day?