The spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky, <br />In moist unchimneyed places, in a wind, <br />That whips it all before, and all behind, <br />Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high, <br />It is the first, the homeliest thing of all-- <br />At sight of it, that lad that by it fares, <br />Whistles afresh his foolish, town-caught airs-- <br />A thing so honey-colored, and so tall! <br /> <br />It is as though the young Year, ere he pass, <br />To the white riot of the cherry tree, <br />Would fain accustom us, or here, or there, <br />To his new sudden ways with bough and grass, <br />So starts with what is humble, plain to see, <br />And all familiar as a cup, a chair.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spicewood/
