The lilac is one of spring’s first greetings. In February, its knot of bare, gray-brown twigs and branches defies winter. Its lush beauty, invisible and unseen one day, appears the next. Heart-shaped leaves shelter the flowers from bud to blossom. Each day, they open more and their fragrance arrives with joy.
When I hold a lilac blossom close and inhale this fragrance, I’m happy. The perfume is sweet, gentle, happy and exhilarating. It makes a forever memory in my heart and mind. Lilacs have always been one of my favorite flowers, yet their blooms are so brief. But what they give in those few days lasts until the next spring.
In 1865, Walt Whitman wrote “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” a pastoral elegy to Abraham Lincoln. He wrote the poem following Lincoln’s assassination. Whitman had also served in several civilian and volunteer roles during the Civil War. In this poem, he profoundly grieves Lincoln’s death and the war’s tragedy he saw firsthand. Following these experiences, Whitman’s poetry shifted and, through his work, he deeply reflects on death and loss—and the duality of life’s joy and grief. In this free-verse poem, his nature and funeral imagery speak about life’s temporalness and the ephemeral beauty of spring.
When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d
Walt Whitman
[verses 1-3]
1
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
3
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.
