When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d . . .
Sometimes a line of poetry or prose is so evocative, that you can feel something deep inside move in response to it. When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d is like that for me; I can feel what it means, and tears gather even though it is not the actual meaning that makes me weep. The poem in which this line appears was actually written by Walt Whitman in 1865 as an elegy for Abraham Lincoln. But it is not that which brings the tears . . . it is for some other dimly remembered dooryard, in some other time . . .
In the dooryard 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 dooryard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.