Yellow Jessamine

Because it's grey, and cold, and might snow, and a dismal day to begin the shortest and most ill-omened month:

Yellow Jessamine

By Constance Fenimore Woolson


IN tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars,
  In floating, curling sprays,
The golden flower comes shining through the woods
  These February days;
Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town,
  To bring her gayly in,
This wild, sweet Princess of far Florida— 
  The yellow jessamine.

The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face
  Peep from the thickets; shy,
She hides behind the leaves her golden buds
  Till, bolder grown, on high
She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then flings
  Herself aloft in glee,
And, bursting into thousand blossoms swings
  In wreaths from tree to tree.

The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores 
  This Princess of the air;
The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs,
  “Ah! come, lest I despair;”
The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns
  Quiver and thrill within,
As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch
  Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see
  The wreaths of golden bloom,
Brought in from the far woods with eager haste 
  To deck the poorest room,
The rich man’s house, alike; the loaded hands
  Give sprays to all they meet,
Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,
  And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green
  Which may not fall nor fade,
Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
  With leaves of fresher shade;
The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
  Their fragrant work begin:
The spring has come—has come to Florida,
  With yellow jessamine.