The chestnut is a candlestick 
Of arching clusters, rosy and thick, 
And branches branching wide and high 
Toward the smiling sky. 

Closed are the sweet-lip buds that hide 
A flame of mother-o'-pearl inside. 
Open, open, O rosy mouth! 
The wind is from the south. 

O wind, from Spring's own country blow, 
Till all the candles lit a-row, 
And all the candles lit a-ring, 
Make Christmas trees for Spring. 

The little candle-cups are made 
Of silver, rosy pearl, and jade. 
Each cup shall hold its light aloft, 
Moon-pale in wood and croft. 

Not finer in the sky above 
The heavenly candlestick, whereof 
The candles are the stars that keep 
Light while the sun's asleep. 

O chestnut, light your million lamps 
In fairy camps, in dew and damps, 
And draw the moths at eve to play 
Around their glimmering ray.

O chestnut, light your lamps all pale, 
The nights are for the nightingale. 
Amid your lamps Love's bower is made: 
Love's litanies are prayed.

Too soon, too soon on hill and lawn, 
Like him who quenches lamps at dawn, 
Shall one blow out your lights and leave 
The woods to dusky eve.