Chestnut in April

The chestnut is a candlestick

Of arching clusters, rosy and thick,

And branches branching wide and high

Toward the smiling sky.

Closed are the sweet-lip buds that hide

A flame of mother-o'-pearl inside.

Open, open, O rosy mouth!

The wind is from the south.

O wind, from Spring's own country blow,

Till all the candles lit a-row,

And all the candles lit a-ring,

Make Christmas trees for Spring.

The little candle-cups are made

Of silver, rosy pearl, and jade.

Each cup shall hold its light aloft,

Moon-pale in wood and croft.

Not finer in the sky above

The heavenly candlestick, whereof

The candles are the stars that keep

Light while the sun's asleep.

O chestnut, light your million lamps

In fairy camps, in dew and damps,

And draw the moths at eve to play

Around their glimmering ray.

O chestnut, light your lamps all pale,

The nights are for the nightingale.

Amid your lamps Love's bower is made:

Love's litanies are prayed.

Too soon, too soon on hill and lawn,

Like him who quenches lamps at dawn,

Shall one blow out your lights and leave

The woods to dusky eve.