When Lilacs Last by the Dooryard Bloom'd

My mother and my grandfather often recited this poem by Walt Whitman to me when I was young.  It was my first thought when I saw that the lilacs by the garage door actually have buds this year-- the first year since we moved to South Hollow.  The two bushes were planted at the corner by the landscapers. I could not identify them for certain without a bloom except for knowing the heart-shaped leaves and the smooth bark on the stems resembled a lilac of some sort.  I think they have been pruned in the spring instead of the the fall these past two years by the landscapers. This year I have blooms. They may be by the garage door--and not the dooryard-- but I am happy.

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,

With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break.                                  

 

Walt Whitman