White jasmine stretches far and wide,
Along the grey wall's southern side
⁠Its graceful branches wreathe;
And winds of summer sweet and low,
Among its verdure and its snow,
⁠Their tender music breathe.

The garden beds that once were gay
And fragrant all the summer day,
⁠Are empty and forlorn;
The hungry bees afar have flown,
The gravel walks are weed-o'ergrown,
⁠The trellis rose is torn.

Within the house each empty room
Is shut in silent, rayless gloom,
⁠With cheerless hearthstone cold;
No pictures smile upon the wall,
No single trace is left of all
⁠We cherished so of old.

But in the southern sunshine bright,
And by the jasmine, clad in white,
⁠A youthful maiden stands,
With lips that speak of sad unrest;
A hunch of daisies on her breast,
⁠And jasmine in her hands.

With farewell looks of aching love,
Her brown eyes wander round, above,
⁠It is a sacred spot;
The home of childish grief and mirth,
The home whence dearest dead went forth
⁠To share earths common lot.

Ah, maiden! as the jasmine snow
Doth vanish, so the years that go
⁠Will take this grief away;
Will give thee older woes as sure,
As strong, and deep if not so pure
⁠As this of thine to-day.

Yet let the daisies on thy breast
Teach thee that life's securest rest
⁠In humble paths doth lie;
And let the jasmine in thine hand
Whisper of fairer blossoms fanned
⁠By sweetest airs on high.

Fear not to muse when far away,
How summer sunshine gilds each day
⁠These lonely garden bowers;
How sweetly yet the thrushes call,
How climb about the gray old wall
⁠Thine own loved jasmine flowers.

So may the memory of this home,
Thy first and dearest, ever come
⁠With healing strength to thee;
To mind thee, by its vanished grace,
Of one prepared abiding-place,
⁠From sound of farewell free!

As once I paused on poet wing
⁠In the green heart of a grove,
I met the spirit of the spring
⁠With her great eyes lit of love.

She took me gently by the hand,
⁠And whispered in my anxious ear
Secrets none may understand,
⁠Till she made their meaning clear:

Why the primrose looks so pale;
⁠Why the rose is set with thorns;
Why the magic nightingale
⁠Through the darkness mourns and mourns.

She ceased: a leafy murmur sighed
⁠Softly through the listening trees.
Anon she uttered, eager-eyed,
⁠These her joyful mysteries:

How the angels, as they pass
⁠With their vesture pure and white
O'er the shadowy garden grass,
⁠Touch the lilies into light:

Or with hidden hands of love
⁠Guide the throstles wavering wings,
But show theirfaces bright above,
⁠Only where the skylark sings.

There came a cloud over yonder hill,
⁠When the wind was muttering low,
Round and white as the sails, that fill
⁠When the winds o'er the ocean go.

And the skirts of the cloud were snowy white,
⁠But the heart of the cloud was black;
And the sunshine fled, and the trees in fright
⁠Murmured and bowed them back.

And the cruel north wind whistled shrill,
⁠And the south wind sobbed in turn,
And the east wind shrieked, "Come down and kill!"
⁠And the west wind sighed, "Return!"

But the cloud gave heed to sob nor cry,
⁠But swept over bill and plain;
The cloud went by in the broad blue sky,
⁠And the sunshine came again.