Elizabeth Akers (1832-1911)
Elizabeth Akers, also known as Florence Percy (her earliest poetry) and later, Elizabeth Akers Allen. Born in Strong, Maine, she began writing poetry at an early age. Her first book was Forest Buds from the Woods of Maine, published in 1855 under the pseudonym Florence Percy. It was a popular success. It contains many wonderful poems about Nature, including one of my favorites, “Flown.” The first stanza introduces the intimate relationship the poet feels for the bird in a nest:
“A Beautiful birdling made its nest
In my dark and lonely heart,
And I fondly cherished my welcome guest,
And prayed with a grateful soul, and blest,
That always thus it might sweetly rest,
And never more depart.”
She also published poems in The Atlantic Monthly.
She married and had a child, but her husband abandoned them and her child passed away. She was remarried in 1860, and worked as a journalist. She met her second husband in Italy, but he died the next year, 1861. She worked as a clerk and a nurse during the Civil War and kept writing poetry. “Witch Hazel” was published in The Century in 1894.
“Witch Hazel”
The last lone aster in the wood has died
And taken wings, and flown;
The sighing oaks, the evergreens' dark pride,
And shivering beeches, keep their leaves alone.
From the chill breath of late October's blast
That all the foliage seared,
Even the loyal gentian shrank at last,
And, gathering up her fringes, disappeared.
The wood is silent as an unswept lute;
Color and song have fled;
Only the brave black-alder's brilliant fruit
Lights the sear deadness with its living red.
But what is this wild fragrance that pervades
The air like incense-smoke?
Pungent as spices blown in tropic shades,
Subtle as some enchanter might evoke.
Not like the scent of flower, nor drug, nor balm,
Nor resins from the East,
Yet trancing soul and sense in such a charm
As holds us when the thrush's song has ceased.
Mysterious, gradual, like the gathering dews,
And damp, sweet scents of nights,
Whence is this strange aroma that imbues
The lone and leafless wood with new delight?
And while the questioner drinks, with parted lips,
The mystical draught - behold!
A wondrous bush, beplumed from root to tips
With crimped and curling bloom of shredded gold!
Not even the smallest leaf or hint of green
Is mingled with its sprays,
But every slender stem and twig is seen
Haloed with flickerings of yellow blaze.
What wizard, wise in spells of drugs and gums,
With weird divining-rod
Conjures this luminous loveliness that comes
As if by magic from the frozen sod?
Fearless which-hazel! braver than the oak
That dares not bloom till spring,
Thus to defy the frot's benumbing stroke
With challenge of November blossoming!
And yet it has an airy, delicate grace
Denied all other flowers,
And lights the gloom as some beloved face
Dawns on the dark of melancholy hours.
Miraculous shrub, that thus in frost and blight
Smilest all undismayed,
And scatterest from thy wands of golden light
A sudden sunshine in the chilly glade.
Sprite of New England forests, he was wise
Who gave thee thy quaint name,
As, threading, wind-stripped woods, with awed surprise
He first beheld thy waving fan of flame.