Those laden lilacs at the lawn’s end

Came stark, spindly, and in staggered file,

Like walking wounded from the dead of winter.

We watched them waken in the brusque weather

To rot and rootbreak, to ripped branches,

And saw them shiver as the memory swept them

Of night and numbness and the taste of nothing.

Out of present pain and from past terror

Their bullet-shaped buds came quick and bursting.

As if they aimed to be open with us!

But the sun suddenly settled about them,

And green and grateful the lilacs grew,

Healed in that hush, that hospital quiet.

These lacquered leaves where the light paddles

And the big blooms buzzing among them

Have kept their counsel, conveying nothing

Of their mortal message, unless one should measure

The depth and dumbness of death’s kingdom

By the pure power of this perfume.