Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Last Gentian
By Thomas William Parsons (1819–1892)S
Hearing the Snow’s first footfall in the air;
I felt his cold kiss on my check with dread,
And to my sister said, Beware!
And stooped beneath my bank and let him pass.
Next morn the brook was glass:
My simple sister, in her pride,
Disdained to bow her head, so drooped and died.
Left for Augusta’s hand,
Thou shalt not linger shivering here
By the bleak north wind fanned,
Until thy blue eye turn to gray,
And from thy lids the lashes fall away.
I will not leave thee, loving thee so well,
To face the ruin of November’s air;
But thou shalt go where Summer still doth dwell,
Soft light and bird-song,—all things bright or fair,—
And happy thoughts and wise thoughts fed with books,
And gentle speech, and loving looks
From eyes that still make sunshine everywhere.
For know, thou trembling stem, that not alone
My lady bears the summer in her name;
Her heart is of that season; and her tone
When she shall greet thee,—guessing whence it came,—
And the sweet welcome of her smile
Thy simple soul shall so beguile,
That hadst thou lips as lids, those lips would say
The day I found thee was thy sunniest day.