John Hay at The Fells: Poetry, Loss, and the Beauty of Nature
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
October 8, 1838
Dearest reader,
On this day, John Hay, an American statesman, diplomat, and poet, was born.
His life was deeply intertwined with some of the most turbulent times in U.S. history. Serving as a trusted secretary to three assassinated American leaders—including President Abraham Lincoln—Hay played a pivotal role in shaping the legacy of the Great Emancipator. Together with John Nicolay, he authored the monumental ten-volume biography, Abraham Lincoln: A History, which has profoundly influenced how Lincoln is remembered to this day.
Yet, beyond his political and literary achievements, John’s personal life was marked by deep sorrow. The loss of his son left an indelible mark, as he poignantly wrote,
“The death of our boy made my wife and me old at once and for the rest of our lives.”
With the wealth inherited from his father-in-law, John retreated to a pastoral sanctuary he carefully assembled—the 1,000-acre estate known as The Fells. Its name, rooted in Scottish heritage, means rocky upland pastures—a fitting description for the landscape dotted with prehistoric boulders and grazing sheep, all overlooking the serene Lake Sunapee. His wife, Clara, a devoted gardener herself, nurtured roses and hydrangeas that flourished under her care.
John wrote in 1890,
“I was greatly pleased with the air, the water, the scenery. I have nowhere found a more beautiful spot.”
His poetry, especially the collection Pike County Ballads (1871), reveals a sensitive soul attuned to nature and the human heart. In one poem titled Words, he captures how powerful a single word can be, casting shadows or light over even the greenest of scenes:
When violets were springing
And sunshine filled the day,
And happy birds were singing
The praises of the May,
A word came to me, blighting
The beauty of the scene,
And in my heart was winter,
Though all the trees were green.Now down the blast go sailing
The dead leaves, brown and sere;
The forests are bewailing
The dying of the year;
A word comes to me, lighting
With rapture all the air,
And in my heart is summer,
Though all the trees are bare.
Dear reader, as you wander your own pastoral vistas or tend the blooms of your garden, reflect on John Hay’s tender intertwining of life, loss, nature, and words.
How do simple moments, like the flowering of violets or the whisper of leaves, shape the inner landscape of our hearts?
And might every garden shade and sunbeam harbor the poetry of human experience?
