Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, <br />And colored with the heaven's own blue, <br />That openest when the quiet light <br />Succeeds the keen and frosty night. <br /> <br />Thou comest not when violets lean <br />O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, <br />Or columbines, in purple dressed, <br />Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. <br /> <br />Thou waitest late and com'st alone, <br />When woods are bare and birds are flown, <br />And frosts and shortening days portend <br />The aged year is near his end. <br /> <br />Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye <br />Look through its fringes to the sky, <br />Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall <br />A flower from its cerulean wall. <br /> <br />I would that thus, when I shall see <br />The hour of death draw near to me, <br />Hope, blossoming within my heart, <br />May look to heaven as I depart.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-fringed-gentian/
