Chapter VIII: Part I

Deep down in the garden closes,
In the wildering April weather,
The embryo lilies and roses
Whispered and wondered together:—
“What doth it mean, this thrill
And stir in the mould about us?
Will it prophecies sweet fulfil,
Or cometh it but to flout us?”

_A Lily_

It may be a downward drift
From that unknown world above us,
Some mystical stir or lift
Of beings that know and love us,—
That world of wonderful things,
Ineffable tints and glories,
And blossoms that wander on wings—

_A Red Rose_

Now, _do_ you believe those stories!
That world and its wings and its glow,
I fear me are only fancies
Why, barely a fortnight ago,
Went thither our friends, the pansies!

_A Lily_

Did any return to tell
How the blindfold journey ended,—
If joy at the last befell,
Or a deadly frost descended?

_A White Rose_

Nathless, it is pleasant to stray
In limitless dream and vision.

_A Red Rose_

Nay, better be senseless as clay
And feel not the walls that imprison!

_A Pink Rose_

What more than this warm brown nest
Need any one dream or desire?

_A Lily_

Ah, me! in my aching breast
Is a thirst for something higher!
I may surely trust I go
To some lovely goal unknowing,
To some better thing I grow—
At least, I think I am growing.