Caroline Howard Gilman (08 Oct 1794 – 15 Sep 1888 | Boston MA – Washington DC) poet, editor, author, publisher.
Morning in your garden, when each leaf of crisped green hangs tremulous in diamonds,
with em’rald rays between. Sweet wild-flowers hold their quiet talk. Barberry-bushes’
yellow blossoms hang, as when a child by grassy lane lightly sprang. Dear Lady, your
moralizing knitting-work, whose threads most aptly show how evenly around life’s span
our busy threads should go. Think’st thou that I could see the lily’s leaves floating like
living things upon the wave, and guess not that the tide did move them thus? Think’st
thou, that when the rose’s bloom is stirred, I know not what breeze, with waving breath,
is sweeping o’er its rich and blushing leaves? Or, whenever the wind-harp awakes with
thrilling tones, I know not the same breeze, kissings its strings, calling its murmurs?
Just as clear, love touched thy soul, warbling orchestral tones ambitiously at midnight.