Whitman

In the door-yard

fronting an old farm-house,
near the white-wash’d palings,

 Stands the lilac bush,
tall-growing,
with heart-shaped leaves of rich green

With many a pointed blossom,
rising, delicate,
with the perfume strong I love

 With every leaf a miracle
and from this bush
in the door-yard,

With delicate-color’d blossoms,
and heart-shaped leaves of rich green
A sprig, with its flower, I break.