Oh bud and leaf and blossom,
How beautiful they are!
Than last year's vernal season
'Tis lovelier by far;
This earth was never so enchanting
Nor half so bright before-
But so I've rhapsodized, in springtime,
For forty years or more.

What luxury of color
On shrub and plant and vine,
From pansies' richest purple
To pink of eglantine;
From buttercups to “johnny-jump-ups,”
With deep cerulean eyes,
Responding to their modest surname
In violet surprise.

Sometimes I think the sunlight
That gilds the emerald hills,
And makes Aladdin dwellings
Of dingy domiciles,
Is surplus beauty overflowing
That Heaven cannot hold-
The topaz glitter, or the jacinth,
The glare of streets of gold.

In “Cedar Hill,” the city
Of “low green tents” of sod,
I read the solemn record
Of those gone home to God;
While from their hallowed dust arising
The fragrant lilies grow
As if their life was all the sweeter
For those who sleep below.

And so 'tis not in sadness
I dwell upon the thought,
When I am dead and buried
That I shall be forgot.
Because the germ of reproduction
Doth this poor body hold,
Perchance to add to nature's beauty
A rose above the mold.