The lilac-shrubs， under my study-window， are likewisealmost in leaf； in two or three days more， I may putforth my hand， and pluck the topmost bough in itsfreshest green. These lilacs are very aged， and have lostthe luxuriant foliage of their prime. The heart， or thejudgment， or the moral sense， or the taste， is dissatisfiedwith their present aspect. Old age is not venerable，when it embodies itself in lilacs， rose-bushes， or anyother ornamental shrubs； it seems as if such plants， asthey grow only for beauty， ought to flourish in immortalyouth， or， at least， to die before their sad decrepitude.
Trees of beauty are trees of Paradise， and therefore notsubject to decay， by their original nature， though theyhave lost that precious birth-right by being transplantedto an earthly soil. There is a kind of ludicrous unfitnessin the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly lilacbush.
The analogy holds good in human life. Persons whocan only be graceful and ornamental—who can give theworld nothing but flowers—should die young， and neverbe seen with gray hair and wrinkles， any more than theflower-shrubs with mossy bark and blighted foliage， likethe lilacs under my window. Not that beauty is worthyof less than immortality—no； the beautiful should liveforever—and thence， perhaps， the sense of impropriety，when we see it triumphed over by time. Apple-trees， onthe other hand， grow old without reproach. Let them liveas long as they may， and contort themselves into whateverperversity of shape they please， and deck their witheredlimbs with a springtime gaudiness of pink-blossoms， stillthey are respectable， even if they afford us only an appleor two in a season. Those few apples—or， at all events，the remembrance of apples in by-gone years—are theatonement which utilitarianism inexorably demands， forthe privilege of lengthened life. Human flower-shrubs，if they will grow old on earth， should， beside their lovelyblossoms， bear some kind of fruit that will satisfy earthlyappetites； else neither man， nor the decorum of nature，will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them.
One of the first things that strike the attention， whenthe white sheet of winter is withdrawn， is the neglect anddisarray that lay hidden beneath it. Nature is not cleanly，according to our prejudices. The beauty of precedingyears， now transformed to brown and blighted deformity，obstructs the brightening loveliness of the present hour.
Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of Autumn’swithered leaves. There are quantities of decayed branches，which one tempest after another has flung down， blackand rotten； and one or two with the ruin of a bird’s nestclinging to them. In the garden are the dried bean-vines，the brown stalks of the asparagus-bed， and melancholyold cabbages， which were frozen into the soil before theirunthrifty cultivator could find time to gather them. Howinvariably， throughout all the forms of life， do we findthese intermingled memorials of death！ On the soil ofthought， and in the garden of the heart， as well as in thesensual world， lie withered leaves； the ideas and feelingsthat we have done with. There is no wind strong enoughto sweep them away； infinite space will not garner themfrom our sight. What mean they？ Why may we not bepermitted to live and enjoy， as if this were the first life，and our own the primal enjoyment， instead of treadingalways on these dry bones and mouldering relics， from theaged accumulation of which springs all that now appearsso young and new？ Sweet must have been the springtimeof Eden， when no earlier year had strewn its decay uponthe virgin turf， and no former experience had ripenedinto summer， and faded into autumn， in the hearts of itsinhabitants！ That was a world worth living in！ Oh， thoumurmurer， it is out of the very wantonness of such a life，that thou feignest these idle lamentations！ There is nodecay. Each human soul is the first created inhabitant ofits own Eden. We dwell in an old moss-covered mansion，and tread in the worn footprints the past， and have a grayclergyman’s ghost for our daily and nightly inmate； yet allthese outward circumstances are made less than visionary，by the renewing power of the spirit. Should the spiritever lose this power—should the withered leaves， and therotten branches， and the moss-covered house， and theghost of the gray past， ever become its realities， and theverdure and the freshness merely its faint dream—thenlet it pray to be released from earth. It will need the air ofheaven， to revive its pristine energies！
What an unlooked-for flight was this， from our shadowyavenue of black ash and Balm of Gilead trees， into theinfinite！ Now we have our feet again upon the turf.
Nowhere does the grass spring up so industriously as inthis homely yard， along the base of the stone-wall， and inthe sheltered nooks of the buildings， and especially aroundthe southern door-step； a locality which seems particularlyfavorable to its growth； for it is already tall enough to bendover， and wave in the wind. I observe that several weeds—and， most frequently， a plant that stains the fingers with itsyellow juice—have survived， and retained their freshnessand sap throughout the winter. One knows not how theyhave deserved such an exception from the common lot oftheir race. They are now the patriarchs of the departedyear， and may preach mortality to the present generationof flowers and weeds.
Among the delights of spring， how is it possible toforget the birds！ Even the crows were welcome， as thesable harbingers of a brighter and livelier race. Theyvisited us before the snow was off， but seem mostly tohave departed now， or else to have betaken to remotedepths of the woods， which they haunt all summer long.
