Page 368 - The Story of My Lif

About the same time, in a letter to a friend, in which she makes mention of her
Southern home, she gives so close a reproduction from a poem by one of her
favourite authors that I will give extracts from Helen’s letter and from the poem

itself: EXTRACTS FROM HELEN’S LETTER

[The entire letter is published on pp. 245 and 246 of the Report of the Perkins
Institution for 1891]

The bluebird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the robin
jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of fire, the jolly
bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating the notes of all, the
red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy little wren, are all making the trees
in our front yard ring with their glad song.

FROM THE POEM ENTITLED “SPRING” BY OLIVER WENDELL
HOLMES

The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed from the
myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his
remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent by a
whirlwind from a blazing spire; The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, Repeats
imperious, his staccato note; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised on a bullrush tipsy with his weight: Nay, in his cage the lone canary
sings, Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings.

On the last day of April she uses another expression from the same poem, which
is more an adaptation than a reproduction: “Tomorrow April will hide her tears
and blushes beneath the flowers of lovely May.”