Sarah Orne Jewett

The lilacs lift in generous bloom
Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers;
Their fragrance fills the still old house
Where left alone I count the hours.

High in the apple-trees the bees
Are humming, busy in the sun,—
An idle robin cries for rain
But once or twice and then is done.

The Sunday-morning quiet holds
In heavy slumber all the street,
While from the church, just out of sight
Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet

High at the window in her cage
The old canary flits and sings,
Nor sees across the curtain pass
The shadow of a swallow’s wings.

A poor deceit and copy, this,
Of larger lives that mark their span,
Unreckoning of wider worlds
Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man.

She gathers piteous bits and shreds,
This solitary, mateless thing,
To patient build again the nest
So rudely scattered spring by spring;

[At Bethlehem, Pennsylvania] What of this house with massive walls
And small-paned windows, gay with blooms?
A quaint and ancient aspect falls
Like pallid sunshine through the rooms.

The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows,
For then the ice won’t crack.
Old folks may shiver all day long,
But I shall never freeze;
What cares a jolly boy like me
For winter days like these?