To the Fringed Gentian

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue--blue--as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.