"When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring...
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I
keep—for the dead I loved so well;
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands...and this for
his dear sake;
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim."
- from "When Lilacs Last In The Dooryard Bloomed" by Walt Whitman
Today’s thoughts are courtesy of Colleen Hull-Gray, who happens to be one of the loveliest sisters ever. Thanks, sis, for sharing!
Abundant. Everywhere. Never common. Hardy lilac bushes grow in yards, vacant lots and public places in my native Alberta and adopted Montana home. Well groomed or sprawling wildly, I wait for the white, lavender, deep plum and light heliotrope blossoms to open enough to fill rooms with their fragrance. I passed a row of carefully pruned lilacs with a profusion of blooms today. Lovely. But so are the not so well pruned bushes behind my rented house. Time for me to imitate T.S. Eliot's character: "Now that the lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room"
―
T.S. Eliot, Collected Poems, 1909-1962
