TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 
Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty light; 
Thou comest not when the violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest. 
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 
I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
28 
