Blossom and greenness, making all <br />The winter birthday tropical, <br />And the plain Quaker parlors gay, <br />Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; <br />We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, <br />And laid them tenderly away. <br /> <br />White virgin lilies, mignonette, <br />Blown rose, and pink, and violet, <br />A breath of fragrance passing by; <br />Visions of beauty and decay, <br />Colors and shapes that could not stay, <br />The fairest, sweetest, first to die. <br /> <br />But still this rustic wreath of mine, <br />Of acorned oak and needled pine, <br />And lighter growths of forest lands, <br />Woven and wound with careful pains, <br />And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains, <br />As when it dropped from love's dear hands. <br /> <br />And not unfitly garlanded, <br />Is he, who, country-born and bred, <br />Welcomes the sylvan ring which gives <br />A feeling of old summer days, <br />The wild delight of woodland ways, <br />The glory of the autumn leaves. <br /> <br />And, if the flowery meed of song <br />To other bards may well belong, <br />Be his, who from the farm-field spoke <br />A word for Freedom when her need <br />Was not of dulcimer and reed. <br />This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak.<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-birthday-wreath/
