THE spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky, In moist, unchimneyed places, in a wind, That whips it all before, and all behind, Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high. It is the first, the homeliest thing of all -- At sight of it, the lad that by it fares, Whistles afresh his foolish town-caught airs -- A thing so honey-colored and so tall! It is as though the young Year, ere he pass, To the white riot of the cherry tree, Would fain accustom us, or here, or there, To his new sudden ways with bough and grass, So starts with what is humble, plain to see, And all familiar as a cup, a chair. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONNET: 102 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE PEG OF LIMAVADDY by WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY SPRING [IN WAR-TIME] by HENRY TIMROD THE ALTAR STONE by RICHARD ALEXANDER THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 3. ON WASHING by JOHN ARMSTRONG |