The Audubon Societies M? 



Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 

 Its fragrant lamps, and turns 

 Into a royal court with green festoons 

 The bank of dark lagoons. 



In the deep heart of every forest tree 

 The blood is all aglee, 



And there's a look about the leafless bowers 

 As if they dreamed of flowers. 



Yet still on every side we trace the hand 

 Of Winter in the land, 



Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 

 Flushed by the season's dawn; 



Or where, like those strange semblances we find 

 That age to childhood bind, 

 The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 

 The brown of autumn corn. 



As yet the turf is dark, although you know 

 That, not a span below, 



A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 

 And soon will burst their tomb. 



In gardens you may note, amid the dearth, 

 The crocus breaking earth? 



And near the snowdrop's tender white and green. 

 The violet in its screen. 



But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 

 Along the budding grass. 



And weeks go by, before the enamored South 

 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 



Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 

 In the sweet air of morn; 

 One almost looks to see the very street 

 Grow purple at his feet. 



At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by. 

 And brings, you know not why, 

 A feeling as when eager crowds await 

 Before a palace gate 



Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start 

 If from a beech's heart, 



A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 

 "Behold me! I am May!" 



— By Henry Timrod. U, S. A. 1829-1867. 



