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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343708" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lilacs</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lilacs, <br>False blue, <br>White, <br>Purple, <br>Color of lilac, <br>Your great puffs of flowers <br>Are everywhere in this my New England. <br>Among your heart-shaped leaves <br>Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing <br>Their little weak soft songs; <br>In the crooks of your branches <br>The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs <br>Peer restlessly through the light and shadow <br>Of all Springs. <br>Lilacs in dooryards <br>Holding quiet conversations with an early moon; <br>Lilacs watching a deserted house <br>Settling sideways into the grass of an old road; <br>Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom <br>Above a cellar dug into a hill. <br>You are everywhere. <br>You were everywhere. <br>You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon, <br>And ran along the road beside the boy going to school. <br>You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking, <br>You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver. <br>And her husband an image of pure gold. <br>You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms <br>Through the wide doors of Custom Houses— <br>You, and sandal-wood, and tea, <br>Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks <br>When a ship was in from China. <br>You called to them: “Goose-quill men, goose-quill men, <br>May is a month for flitting.” <br>Until they writhed on their high stools <br>And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers. <br>Paradoxical New England clerks, <br>Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the “Song of Solomon” at night, <br>So many verses before bed-time, <br>Because it was the Bible. <br>The dead fed you <br>Amid the slant stones of graveyards. <br>Pale ghosts who planted you <br>Came in the nighttime <br>And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems. <br>You are of the green sea, <br>And of the stone hills which reach a long distance. <br>You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles, <br>You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home. <br>You cover the blind sides of greenhouses <br>And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass <br>To your friends, the grapes, inside. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Lilacs, <br>False blue, <br>White, <br>Purple, <br>Color of lilac, <br>You have forgotten your Eastern origin, <br>The veiled women with eyes like panthers, <br>The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas. <br>Now you are a very decent flower, <br>A reticent flower, <br>A curiously clear-cut, candid flower, <br>Standing beside clean doorways, <br>Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles, <br>Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight <br>And a hundred or two sharp blossoms. <br>Maine knows you, <br>Has for years and years; <br>New Hampshire knows you, <br>And Massachusetts <br>And Vermont. <br>Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island; <br>Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea. <br>You are brighter than apples, <br>Sweeter than tulips, <br>You are the great flood of our souls <br>Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts, <br>You are the smell of all Summers, <br>The love of wives and children, <br>The recollection of gardens of little children, <br>You are State Houses and Charters <br>And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows. <br>May is lilac here in New England, <br>May is a thrush singing “Sun up!” on a tip-top ash tree, <br>May is white clouds behind pine-trees <br>Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky. <br>May is a green as no other, <br>May is much sun through small leaves, <br>May is soft earth, <br>And apple-blossoms, <br>And windows open to a South Wind. <br>May is full light wind of lilac <br>From Canada to Narragansett Bay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Lilacs, <br>False blue, <br>White, <br>Purple, <br>Color of lilac. <br>Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England, <br>Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England, <br>Lilac in me because I am New England, <br>Because my roots are in it, <br>Because my leaves are of it, <br>Because my flowers are for it, <br>Because it is my country <br>And I speak to it of itself <br>And sing of it with my own voice <br>Since certainly it is mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343708" data-title="Lilacs de Amy Lowell" data-description="Lilacs, 
False blue, 
White, 
Purple, 
Color of lilac, 
Your great puffs of flowers 
Are everywhere in this my New England. 
Among your heart-shaped leaves 
Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing 
Their little weak soft songs; 
In the cr..."></div>
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