When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d Summary
The last time the lilacs bloomed in the front yard and the mighty Western Star was set too early, I was saddened. And every spring I will mourn again.
Spring, you always come back, and you will always bring me these three things: the blossoming lilac every year, the falling stars and the thoughts and memories of my beloved man.
Oh, the powerful western stars that fell from the sky! Oh, the shadow of the night – oh, the natural, weeping night! Oh, the bright stars that have disappeared from the sky – alas, the darkness that covers this star! Oh, the brutal hand that holds me back from being able to do anything – oh, my helpless soul! Oh, the cruel fog that envelops everything and won’t let my soul go.
In the front yard of an old farmhouse, near the white fence, is a lilac bush. It is elongated and its leaves are shaped like deep green hearts. In it many cone-shaped flowers are subtly rising into the air. The flowers have a strong scent that I like. Every leaf of this lilac shrub is miraculous – and from this lilac shrub in the front yard its ornate colorful flowers and its deep green leaves are heart-shaped, I have broken a small branch and its flower.
In the quiet, shelter of the swamp, a shy bird stands before the eyes and sings a song.
The bird is like a lonely deep religious person, who has removed himself from society only to survive on his own, constantly avoiding people. Alone, he sang a song.
This song seems to have come from a sore throat – a song in which death is kind of released (because I know, dear bird, if you didn’t sing you would die).
Through the meadows on both sides, across the spring landscape, through the country, through the cities, through the small roads and old forests (where new violets have recently emerged from the ground in search of winter gray remnants), roads, beyond these boundless fields. In the past of wheat growing like yellow spears and grains growing from their stalks, white and pink apple blossoms blooming in the garden, carrying a corpse to his grave, a coffin traveling night and day.
This coffin travels day and night across roads and paths, casting a shadow over a huge cloud of land. American flags travel in pieces within their own while cities are covered in black to express the enemy. The states that go through it stand in black veils and wear mourning clothes like women. The coffin travels with long, mourning lines and torches burning at night. It travels in the light of all those innumerable torches, the mourners watching like a calm sea with mouths and covered heads.
As soon as the coffin arrives, the mourners wait at the train stations, looking at their faces as they fade. It travels throughout the night with mourning songs, a thousand voices singing loudly and humorously. It travels with all the mournful voices. A voice that pours like water over a coffin and vibrates the limbs of a shaking pipe in a half-lit church – you travel through it all with the moving jingle of a ringing bell. Here, the coffin that slowly passes me, I will give you my little branch from the lilac bush.
(And it’s not just for you that I’ve sprinkled this lilac all I put flowers and green branches in all the coffins death will sing a new song for you like the morning air, since you are so healthy and holy.
There are bunches of roses everywhere; Death, I’ll cover you completely with these roses and the recently blossomed lilies, but mostly with lilacs, which are the first flowers to bloom in the spring. I have cut off multiple branches from the lilac bushes and with these flowers I am coming to you with my arms, they are for you and for the coffins that you, death, made out).
Oh, the star in the west is moving through the sky, now I understand what you meant a month ago, when I walked silently in the clear dark night and saw you wanted to tell me something. You seemed to bend towards me from the sky every night and you came down from the sky almost beside me (while observing all the other stars). We walked together on Monday night because for some reason I couldn’t sleep. As the night wore on I saw you on the western horizon and it seemed like you looked like you were sad. On a cold, clear night the light breeze was blowing and I stood there and saw the place you passed in the sky; I was lost in the blackness of the night. When you, the sad star, disappeared and went down at night, my soul sank into trouble and anxiety.
Singing birds in the swamp, keep singing. Oh, you shy, gentle singer, I hear the notes of your song. I am listening to you and coming to you. I understand you, but I’ve been here a moment longer because this beautiful star has held me; This is my left friend they prevented me from coming to me.
Oh, how can I sing my own song for the one who died? How do I prepare and decorate my song for the huge, sweet soul I left behind? And what kind of scent will I bring to the grave of the dead, the one I love?
The wind is blowing from east and west to the sea, will flow from the eastern ocean and the western ocean, and will meet in the middle of the country in praise. Here, in the middle of the country, I will bring to his grave the scent of this sea air and the breath of my own song.
Oh, what shall I hang on the wall of his tomb? And what pictures can I place on these walls to decorate his tomb?
I’ll be bringing pictures of new growth in the spring and clear gray smoke from the bathrooms of farms and houses during the April sunset. These pictures will also show beautiful, lazy, golden coloring from the falling sun which is burning and allows the air itself to get bigger. In these pictures we will see the new sweet grass that is going on and the new spring leaves of lots of trees in the show background, the pictures show the glistening surface of the flowing river, touched by the wind. The pictures will show lots of hills along the river – mountains that create silhouettes against the sky and other kinds of shadows. The pictures will also show the nearby town, which is densely populated and the brick stacks of the chimney. The pictures will show life in these cities, showing factories and workshops and men returning home from work.
Check out this terrain, which has body and soul: the long points of its buildings in Manhattan, where I came from, and the bright, fast-moving ocean tides and ships. Towards different and abundant lands, see the sunlight in South and North America, on the banks of the Ohio River, and on the banks of the glistening Missouri River. And see the wide-ranging testimonials that are made with grass and corn.
Look at the admirable, bright sun that is peaceful and proud. See the soft and infinite light in the morning with different shades of purple in the sky and freshly recognizable air. When the sun rises, it seems like a miracle, its light is covered and everything is washed away. Look in the middle of the day and see the pleasant feeling of the evening approach. See the many awaited nights and stars, which shine all over my city, blanketing both people and land.
Singing, you are a gray-brown bird. Sing from the swamps and all the hidden places. Get your song from low quality. Sing this elaborate song in the evening, shouting from the cedars and trees.
Dear brother, try your loud song singing your song loud and human. Keep singing it in your deep sad voice.
Oh, your song is flowing and soft! Oh, your song is uninterrupted and frees my soul – oh, wonderful singer! I only hear you, but they hold me back (although soon, they will leave). Still, the strong scent of lilac holds me back.
I sat around during the day and looked around. It was the end of the day, so the sunset bathed the fields that burst with the spring, and the farmers lit up when they planted their crops. I saw the vast landscape of my country with its lakes and wood. There was a sacred beauty in the air after the turbulent weather turmoil. I sat down under the curved sky, where a bird flew around noon, and I heard the sound of children and women talking. There were also tidal waves, and I could see boats floating on the water. I felt the rich feeling of coming closer to summer and the farmers working in the fields and the countless separate houses, each running on its own. Each house had food and small chores. I saw vibrant movements on the streets and in paint-up cities. I saw it sitting outside like a cloud that covered everything. This cloud appeared like a long black path, and suddenly I thought I know death it thought its thought familiar and sacred.
Then it seemed that death itself was walking beside me, while my own thoughts about death were moving on the other side. I walked between them as if walking with friends and holding their hands. But I escaped the safety of the quiet night. I went to the edge of the swamp and traveled through its faded path. I fled between the pine cedar trees and the pine, which were still standing they looked like ghosts.
And that singing bird, which is very embarrassing to everyone else, welcomed me there. This gray-brown bird welcomes three of our friends: me, the knowledge of death itself, and my own thoughts about death.
Holding the song of my own soul, the gray-brown bird sings its own song loudly and firmly. It spreads clean, intentional notes and fills the whole night.
The song was loud in the dark pine trees and ers. It smelled clear through the fresh damp, wetland scent of the swamp ran I stood there at night with my friends – the knowledge of death and the thought of death.
My vision was now not limited to what my eyes could see – instead, I saw a huge, sweeping vision.
I got a glimpse of the army in battle. While I was dreaming silently, I saw hundreds of flags raised in battle – flags carried through smoky battlefields and cut by sharp projectiles. The flags were tossed and carried back and forth through the smoke until they bleed. Until the end, a number of flags remained on the flagpoles and everything was silent. The flagpoles themselves have been torn to pieces.
I have seen the corpses of people who died in the war, many of them. I have seen the white bones of young men who have died. I have seen the remains of all the soldiers killed in the war. But I realized that they were not what they thought they were; They finally came to peaceful rest and were no longer harmed. But those who are still alive continue to suffer like the mothers of the dead. And the wives and children of the dead and bewildered friends. Even after suffering what the army had.
Walking through this vision of war at night I let go of my friends. I’m going through the song of the bird’s recitation and the song of my own soul – a winning song where death is a kind of liberation. But this song is always changing. It’s a short cry, but it also has a clear melody that rises and falls and lingers at night. The song falls into sadness as a kind of warning but bursts into happiness. It spreads all over the world and fills the sky like a powerful song heard from waterlogging at night. I’m leaving you, a lilac bush, like a heart on a leaf. I leave you there in the front yard; I made you bloom there, only to return in the spring.
I stopped singing my song for you. I stop looking for you in the west. I closed my mouth to the west. I stop gathering around you, oh my bright friend, whose face is silver at night.
But everyone will hold on to the song that originated at night. Everyone will remember the gray-brown bird’s wonderful song, which inspired my own soul to sing with bright stars that filled his mouth with sorrow. My soul sang with my hands on both sides and we reached the singing bird – the knowledge of death and the thought of death were my colleagues and I stood among them, and this memory will keep my love for the person who died and whom I love so much. He was the smartest and most humble person in my life. It’s for her: Lilac and the stars and birds have merged with the scent of pine trees and the song of my soul surrounded by dark cedars.When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’dWhen Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’Facebook