During my two-hour walk to the library today, I kept an eye out for blog photograph subjects. (In accordance with the practice of modern media, I too substitute images whenever I am empty of ideas.) Unfortunately, nothing of interest was happening in the visual realm. The olfactory realm was a different story. Cool breezes, freshened by intermittent light rain sprinkles, carried the odors of new-mown lawns, of damp weeds beside the hike-and-bike trail, and of hotdogs grilling at the park.
The most striking odor I encountered was that of lilac blossoms. I was three blocks away from the library when I was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of lilac fragrance. I stopped and looked all around. There were no lilac bushes in sight. Where was the fragrance coming from? I was baffled.
A fanciful explanation was that I was in the presence of a ghost. The fragrance of lilacs has long been linked to death and apparitions. After the battle of Gettysburg, townspeople used lilac water to cover up the stench of death. It was reported that later ghostly sightings around the battlefield area were accompanied by the smell of lilacs. Perhaps I had been visited by the ghost of a Civil War soldier who had lost his way.
The most famous literary association of lilacs with death, of course, is Walt Whitman's elegy When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd, which commemorates Lincoln's death and the period of mourning as Lincoln's coffin was carried back to Illinois on the funeral train. Here are the pertinent lilac stanzas. (I recommend reading the entire poem.)
1
WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
3
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.
6
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.
7
(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)
