Chapter L: H. Bailey (2)

Gray walls that lichen stains,
That take the sun and the rains,
Old, stately, and wise:
Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered,
In ancient ways yet ordered;
South walks where the loud bee plies
Daylong till Summer flies--
Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Gay cottage gardens, glad,
Comely, unkempt, and mad,
Jumbled, jolly, and quaint;
Nooks where some old man dozes;
Currants and beans and roses
Mingling without restraint;
A wicket that long lacks paint--
Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Sprawling for elbow-room,
Spearing straight spikes of bloom,
Clean, wayward, and tough;
Sweet and tall and slender,
True, enduring, and tender,
Buoyant and bold and bluff,
Simplest, sanest of stuff--
Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.

W. W. BLAIR FISH

DAWN IN MY GARDEN

I went into my garden at break of Delight,
Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky,
To see how many cucumbers had happened over night,
And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high.

I went into my garden when Rest had fallen away
From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green,
To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day,
And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean.

I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing low
Through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines,
Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row,
Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines.

Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold,
From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night,
But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold,
When I went into my garden at break of Delight!

MARGUERITE WILKINSON

THE PROUD VEGETABLES

In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat,
There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat;
But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round,
And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.

Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one.
He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun.
"We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he,
"A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see."

Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck,
Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck.
Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean,
The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.

A big white _daikon_ hid in earth beneath his leafy crest;
And mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest.
Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds
With pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds.

There, in a spot that feels the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves
Great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves.
Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink,
And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.

Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolence
Till Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence;
But not to earth she fell! Alas,--but down, with all her force,
Upon old Father Pumpkin's head, and cracked his skull, of course.

At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split,
Cucumbers turned a sickly hue, the _daikon_ had a fit,
The sweet potatoes rent the ground,--the egg-plant dropped his loom,
While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom.

And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them.
He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem,
He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way--
All this was told me by the cook,--we ate the last to-day.

MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA

THE CHOICE

When skies are blue and days are bright
A kitchen-garden's my delight,
Set round with rows of decent box
And blowsy girls of hollyhocks.

Before the lark his Lauds hath done
And ere the corncrake's southward gone;
Before the thrush good-night hath said
And the young Summer's put to bed.

The currant-bushes' spicy smell,
Homely and honest, likes me well,
The while on strawberries I feast,
And raspberries the sun hath kissed.

Beans all a-blowing by a row
Of hives that great with honey go,
With mignonette and heaths to yield
The plundering bee his honey-field.

Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage
And the delicious mint and sage,
Rosemary, marjoram, and rue,
And thyme to scent the winter through.

Here are small apples growing round,
And apricots all golden-gowned,
And plums that presently will flush
And show their bush a Burning Bush.

Cherries in nets against the wall,
Where Master Thrush his madrigal
Sings, and makes oath a churl is he
Who grudges cherries for a fee.

Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here
Shall Beauty make her pomander,
Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes
That wrap her as the leaves the rose.

Take roses red and lilies white,
A kitchen-garden's my delight;
Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves,
And its tall cote of irised doves.

KATHARINE TYNAN

THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tail they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow--
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way,
Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

GRACE FOR GARDENS

Lord God in Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!

Lord God in Paradise,
Please bless the beans and peas,
Give us corn full on the ear--
We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!
Bless the blossom
And the root,
Bless the seed
And the fruit!

Lord God in Paradise,
Over my brown field is seen,
Trembling and adventuring.
A miracle of green.
Send such grace
As you know,
To keep it safe
And make it grow!

Lord God in Paradise,
For the wonder of the seed,
Wondering, we praise you, while
We tell you of our need.
Look down from Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!

LOUISE DRISCOLL

SILVER BELLS AND COCKLE SHELLS

PLANTING

_The sky is blue and soft to-day,
The grass is green this month of May,
And Muvver with her spade and rake
My little garden helps me make;
For every one must plant more seeds
To grow the food that each one needs:
Potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets,
The kind of beans that sister eats,
We plant in rows marked by a string,
For neatness is the one great thing;
The earth is then raked smooth and pressed
And Nature 'tends to all the rest._

ROBERT LIVINGSTON

SPRING PATCHWORK

If I could patch a coverlet
From pieces of the Spring,
What dreams a happy child would have
Beneath so fair a thing!

A center of the dear blue sky,
A bordering of green,
With patches of the yellow sun
All chequered in between.

Bright ribbons of the silky grass
Laced prettily across,
With satin of new little leaves,
And velvet of the moss.

In every corner, violets,
Half-hidden from the view,
With many-flowered squares betwixt,
Of pinky tints and blue;

Of flossy silk and gossamer,
Of tissue and brocade;
A warp of rosy morning mist,
A woof of purple shade.

Embroideries of little vines,
And spider-webs of lace,
With tassels of the alder tied
At each convenient place.

With gold-thread I would sew the seams,
And needles of the pine,
Oh, never child in all the world
Would have a quilt like mine!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

BABY'S VALENTINE

Valentine, O Valentine,
Pretty little Love of mine;
Little Love whose yellow hair
Makes the daffodils despair;
Little Love whose shining eyes
Fill the stars with sad surprise:
Hither turn your ten wee toes,
Each a tiny shut-up rose,
End most fitting and complete
For the rosy-pinky feet;
Toddle, toddle here to me,
For I'm waiting, do you see?--
Waiting for to call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!

Valentine, O Valentine,
I will dress you up so fine!
Here's a frock of tulip-leaves,
Trimmed with lace the spider weaves;
Here's a cap of larkspur blue,
Just precisely made for you;
Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed,
Once the tiger-lily's pride,
Spotted all with velvet black
Like the fire-beetle's back;
Lady-slippers on your feet,
Now behold you all complete!
Come and let me call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!

Valentine, O Valentine,
Now a wreath for you I'll twine.
I will set you on a throne
Where the damask rose has blown,
Dropping all her velvet bloom,
Carpeting your leafy room:
Here while you shall sit in pride,
Butterflies all rainbow-pied,
Dandy beetles gold and green,
Creeping, flying, shall be seen,
Every bird that shakes his wings,
Every katydid that sings,
Wasp and bee with buzz and hum.
Hither, hither see them come,
Creeping all before your feet,
Rendering their homage meet.
But 'tis I that call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!

LAURA E. RICHARDS

BABY SEED SONG

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
Hark to the song of the lark--
"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
Put on your green coats and gay,
Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you--
Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"

Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
What kind of flower will you be?
I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother;
Do be a poppy like me.
What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you
When you're grown golden and high!
But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
Little brown brother, good-bye.

E. NESBIT

RAIN IN THE NIGHT

Raining, raining,
All night long;
Sometimes loud, sometimes soft,
Just like a song.

There'll be rivers in the gutters
And lakes along the street.
It will make our lazy kitty
Wash his little dirty feet.

The roses will wear diamonds
Like kings and queens at court;
But the pansies all get muddy
Because they are so short.

I'll sail my boat to-morrow
In wonderful new places,
But first I'll take my watering-pot
And wash the pansies' faces.

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR

A LITTLE GIRL'S SONGS

I

SPRING SONG

I love daffodils.
I love Narcissus when he bends his head.
I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils
Out of my rhyme of song.
Do you know anything about the spring
When it comes again?
God knows about it while winter is lasting:
Flowers bring him power in the spring,
And birds bring it, and children.
He is sometimes sad and alone
Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.
I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary.
I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he
made
And flowers in the dark of the wood.
I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,
And that snowdrops are up.
What can I say to make him listen?
"God," I say,
"Don't you care!
Nobody must be sad or sorry
In the spring-time of flowers."

II

VELVETS

_By a Bed of Pansies_

This pansy has a thinking face
Like the yellow moon.
This one has a face with white blots:
I call him the clown.
Here goes one down the grass
With a pretty look of plumpness:
She is a little girl going to school
With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.
Her name is Sue.
I like this one, in a bonnet,
Waiting--
Her eyes are so deep!
But these on the other side,
These that wear purple and blue,
They are the Velvets,
The king with his cloak,
The queen with her gown,
The prince with his feather.
These are dark and quiet
And stay alone.

_I know you, Velvets
Color of Dark,
Like the pine-tree on the hill
When stars shine!_

HILDA CONKLING
(_Six years old_)

WHEN SWALLOWS BUILD

When apple-blossom time doth come
And with their scent the air is filled,
And fields are full of buttercups,--
'Tis then the swallows build.

And when the rippling brooks are deep,
Filled to the overflowing,
When o'er the hills and meadows fair
The south wind's softly blowing,

With sun a-shining, birds a-singing
Till their joyous throats are thrilled,
And with all the world in laughter,--
'Tis then the swallows build.

CATHERINE PARMENTER
(_Eleven years old_)

SPRING PLANTING

"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,--
Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?
Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?
Then shall our summer be flowery and bright."

"Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he,
"Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree?
Why should we water and weary away
For sake of a flower that lives but a day!"

So she made gardens which he would not dig,
Tended her apricot, apple and fig.
Then, when one morning he chanced to appear,
Sadly he noticed--"No trespassing here."

HELEN HAY WHITNEY

IF I COULD DIG LIKE A RABBIT

If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit,
D'you know what I'd do?
Well, I'd dig a deep hole--
Right under that tree--
Then I'd go down--and down,
And find out where the tree starts,
And I'd find out how it eats and drinks,
And what makes it grow....
Yes I would!
P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree,
And--see--it--grow!...
But p'r'aps I couldn't.

Anyway I could dig 'way down,
And see all the flower seeds,
And all the grass seeds,
And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds.
And I'd see everything start growing.

Do all the seeds make noises
When they start to grow?
What do You s'pose about that?
I s'pose they sing,
'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine....

Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there,
And then I'd want to come up home,
And I'd have so much to tell to You!

If I could dig holes like a rabbit,
That's just what I would do.

ROSE STRONG HUBBELL

THE LITTLE GOD

Mother says there's a little god
Lives in my garden.
I asked her--"In the tree?"--
I asked her--"In the fountain?"
And she said, yes, that she,
Plain as plain could be,
Everywhere could see
The little god.
"What's he look like, mother?"
"Oh," she said, "like the flowers,
Like the summer showers,
Like the morning dew,--
Like you."
She says he's everywhere
In my garden--I can't see him there.

KATHARINE HOWARD

DAISIES

At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadow of the Night.

And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

THE ANXIOUS FARMER

It was awful long ago
That I put those seeds around;
And I guess I ought to know
When I stuck 'em in the ground.
'Cause I noted down the day
In a little diary book,--
It's gotten losted somewhere and
I don't know where to look.

But I'm certain anyhow
They've been planted most a week
And it must be time by now
For their little sprouts to peek.
They've been watered every day
With a very speshul care,
And once or twice I've dug 'em up to
see if they were there.

I fixed the dirt in humps
Just the way they said I should;
And I crumbled all the lumps
Just as finely as I could.
And I found a nangle-worm
A-poking up his head,--
He maybe feeds on seeds and such,
and so I squushed him dead.

A seed's so very small,
And dirt all looks the same;--
How can they know at all
The way they ought to aim?
And so I'm waiting round
In case of any need;
A farmer ought to do his best for
every single seed!

BURGES JOHNSON

OVER THE GARDEN WALL

By the side of a wall in a garden gay,
A little Rose-bush grew;
In the first dear days of the month of May,
Loved by the sun and dew.

It gazed to the top of the wall so high
With happy longing and pride,
When it heard the children laugh and cry
As they passed on the other side.

And into its leaves and buds there came
A beautiful thought of God.
"I can climb to the heights of love and fame,
If my roots are in the sod."

Then up and over the garden-wall,
It clambered far and wide,
Shedding its sweetness for one and all
As they passed on the other side,--

The weary laborer, the beggar cold,
The wise man and the fool,
The mother and daughter, the grandam old
And the children going to school.

The breezes scattered its pink and white
In a perfumed shower for all,
And the beautiful days of June were bright
With the Rose on the Garden-wall.

Our hearts are like the Roses of June,
They can live for one and all,
Giving their love as a blessed boon,
From a palace or cottage wall.

EMILY SELINGER

THE FLOWERPHONE

See the morning-glories hung
On the vine for me to use:
Hark! A flower-bell has rung,
I can talk now, if I choose.

"Hellow Central! Oh, hello!
Give me Puck of Fairyland--
Mr. Puck, I want to know
What I cannot understand.

"How the leaves are scalloped out;
Where's the den of Dragon Fly?
What do crickets chirp about?
Where do flowers go when they die?

"How far can a Fairy see?
Why are woodsy things afraid?
Who lives in the hollow tree?
How are cobweb carpets made?

"Why do Fairies hide?--Hello!
What? I cannot understand--"
That's the way they always do,
They've cut me off from Fairyland!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

THE FAITHLESS FLOWERS

I went this morning down to where the Johnny-Jump-Ups grow
Like naughty purple faces nodding in a row.
I stayed 'most all the morning there--I sat down on a stump
And watched and watched and watched them--and they never gave a jump!

And Golden-Glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence,
It doesn't glow a single bit--it's only just pretence--
I ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark--
I had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark!

And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce--I tried them yesterday,
I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay,
I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball,
And threw them down as hard as hard--they never bounced at all!

And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone,
All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone,
But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog,
Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog!

I like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be
For bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see,
But still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer--
They don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year!

MARGARET WIDDEMER

THE FLOWER-SCHOOL

When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.

When the rains come down they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

IRIS FLOWERS

My mother let me go with her,
(I had been good all day),
To see the iris flowers that bloom
In gardens far away.

We walked and walked through hedges green,
Through rice-fields empty still,
To where we saw a garden gate
Beneath the farthest hill.

She pointed out the rows of "flowers";--
I saw no planted things,
But white and purple butterflies
Tied down with silken strings.

They strained and fluttered in the breeze,
So eager to be free;
I begged the man to let them go,
But mother laughed at me.

She said that they could never rise,
Like birds, to heaven so blue.
But even mothers do not know
Some things that children do.

That night, the flowers untied themselves
And softly stole away,
To fly in sunshine round my dreams
Until the break of day.

MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA

IF I WERE A FAIRY

I'd love to sit on a clover-top
And sway,
And swing and shake, till the dew would drop
In spray;
To croon a song for the bumble-bee
To leave his golden honey with me,
And sway and swing, till the wind would stop
To play.

I'd weave a hammock of spider-thread
Loose-hung,
Where grasses nodded above my head
And swung.
And all day long, while the hammock swayed
I'd twine and tangle the sun and shade,
Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!"
Was sung.

Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloud
I'd lie,
While night winds sang to the stars that crowd
The sky.
And all night long, I would swing and sleep
While fireflies lighted their lamps to peep--
"Oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud--
"Oh hush-a-by!"

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

FRINGED GENTIANS

Near where I live there is a lake
As blue as blue can be, winds make
It dance as they go blowing by.
I think it curtseys to the sky.

It's just a lake of lovely flowers,
And my Mamma says they are ours;
But they are not like those we grow
To be our very own, you know.

We have a splendid garden, there
Are lots of flowers everywhere;
Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks,
And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.

Mamma lets us pick them, but never
Must we pick any gentians--ever!
For if we carried them away
They'd die of homesickness that day.

AMY LOWELL

THE SCISSORS-MAN

As I was busy with my tools
That make my garden neat,
I heard a little crooked tune
Come drifting up the street.

It didn't seem to have an end
Like others that are plain;
You always felt it going on
Till it began again.

It came quite near: I heard it call,
And dropped my tools and ran
To peer out through the gate;
I thought it might be Pan.

But it was just the scissors-man
Who walked along and played
Upon a little instrument
He told me he had made.

Now, if you hope to see a god
As hard to find as Pan,
It's sad when it turns out to be
A plain old scissors-man.

But when my mother came to hear
The crooked tune he made,
She said his instrument was like
Some pipes that Pan had played.

And I must ask the scissors-man
If he had ever known
Or met a queer old god who played
On pipes much like his own.

He would not tell: and when I asked
Who taught him how to play,
He made that crooked tune again,
And laughed and went away.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE GARDEN OF LIFE

GOD'S GARDEN

_The years are flowers and bloom within
Eternity's wide garden;
The rose for joy, the thorn for sin,
The gardener God, to pardon
All wilding growths, to prune, reclaim,
And make them rose-like in His name._

RICHARD BURTON

"THE LORD GOD PLANTED A GARDEN"

The Lord God planted a garden
In the first white days of the world,
And He set there an angel warden
In a garment of light enfurled.

So near to the peace of Heaven,
That the hawk might nest with the wren,
For there in the cool of the even
God walked with the first of men.

And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,--
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.

DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY

THE LILIES

Ever the garden has a spiritual word:
In the slow lapses of unnoticed time
It drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb,
Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a bird
Is in the porches of the morning heard;
So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime,
And with the music thought and feeling rhyme,
And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred.

Beauty is silent,--through the summer day
Sleeps in her gold,--O wondrous sunlit gold,
Frosting the lilies, virginal array!
Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold,
Warm, orient blooms!--how motionless are they--
Speechless--the eternal loveliness untold!

GEORGE E. WOODBERRY

BARTER

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

SARA TEASDALE

SONNET

Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain,
May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knows
From what immortal granary comes the grain,
Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose;

But from the dust and from the wetted mud
Comes help, given or taken; so with me
Deep in my brain the essence of my blood
Shall give it stature until Beauty be.

It will look down, even as the burning flower
Smiles upon June, long after I am gone.
Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour,
Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,

Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain
Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE TILLING

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart,
Dragging the harrow, Pain,
And turning the old year's tillage
Under the sod again.
So, well do I know the Tiller
Will bring once more the grain;
For grief comes never to the strong--
Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong--
But from them spring a hidden throng
Of seeds, for new life fain.

So heavily do I let the hoofs
Trample the deeps of me;
For only thus is spirit
Brought to fecundity.
But when the ox is stabled
And the harrow set aside,
With calm I watch a new world grow,
Sweetly green, up out of woe,
And, glad of the Tiller, then I know
He too is satisfied.

CALE YOUNG RICE

SAFE

Now shall your beauty never fade;
For it was budding when you passed
Beyond this glare, into the shade
Of fairer gardens unforecast,
Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade,
Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.

Now never shall that glorious breast
Wither, those deft hands lose their art,
Nor those glad shoulders be oppressed
By failing breath or fluttering heart,
Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed,
The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.

Forever shall you be your best,--
Nay, far more luminously shine
Than when our comradeship was blessed
By what on earth seemed most divine,
Before your body passed to rest
With what I then supposed this heart of mine.

Now shall your bud of beauty blow
Far lovelier than I knew before
When, such a little time ago,
I looked upon your face, and swore
That Helen's never moved men so
When her white, magic hands enkindled war.

As you sweep on from power to power
Shall every earthward thought you think
Irradiate my lonely hour
Till I shall taste the golden drink
Of Life, and see the full-blown flower,
Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.

ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

SORROW IN A GARDEN

Here in this ancient garden
When Winter days had flown
I came, with Comrade Sorrow
To dwell with her alone.

Here in this sweet seclusion
Far from the World's cold stare
What exquisite communings
Sorrow and I would share!

What banquets of remembrance!
What luxury of tears!
With Sorrow in a garden
Through the rose-scented years!

But one day when she called me
I did not hear her voice;
I only heard the lilies
Which sang "Rejoice, rejoice!"

The world was gold and azure
The air was sweet with birds;
My garden laughed with rapture
How could I hear her words?

For June was in the garden
And June was in my heart,
And since that hour pale Sorrow
And I have dwelt apart.

But often in the twilight
When birds and gardens sleep
I feel her presence with me
Her arms about me creep.

And when the ghosts of Summer
With the dead roses talk,
I hear her softly sobbing
Along the moonlit walk.

I never can forget her
So intimate were we!
But Sorrow, in my garden
Abides no more with me.

MAY RILEY SMITH

MOTH-FLOWERS

The pale moth
Trembles in the white moonlight;
Thus my heart trembles with love!

The rose petals fall--
The red petals of my heart;
Oh, the breath of love!

Cool, sweet tears
Of honey, the jasmine weeps;
Burning fall the tears of love.

Oh, how bitter
Is the White Poppy, Death;
There are no more dreams of love.

JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER

ALCHEMY

I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.

For I shall learn from flower and leaf
That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
To living gold.

SARA TEASDALE

FLOWERS IN THE DARK

Late in the evening, when the room had grown
Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light
And noisy voices, I stole out alone
Into the darkness of the summer night.

Down the long garden-walk I slowly went,
A little wind was stirring in the trees;
I only saw the whitest of the flowers,
And I was sorry that the earlier hours
Of that fair evening had been so ill spent,
Because I said, "I am content with these
Dear friends of mine who only speak to me
With their delicious fragrance, and who tell
To me their gracious welcome silently."

The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet;
I find the tall white lilies I love well.
I linger as I pass the mignonette,
And what surprise could clearer be than this:
To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!

SARAH ORNE JEWETT

WELCOME

There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended,
Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light.
And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendid
I see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white.

Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark Dolores
Showing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of all
Under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories,
Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall.

Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender;
Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say;
They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender,
Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day.

Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares,
Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths around
The portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil Maries
That Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned.

"Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.)
"How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat,
Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringing
Till at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet,
Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet.

JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD

THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN

When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child,--
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:
"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;
I am the little child you used to be."

HENRY VAN DYKE

A WONDER GARDEN

"And a little child shall lead them"
Into her world, beneath her smiling skies;
A little child with wide, wondering eyes
Deep with the mystery that in them lies.
Her soft hand plucks a stem asunder,
And with the dream that is a part
Of Childhood's heart,
She questions:
"Now I want to wonder!"

She "wants to wonder" how so fair a thing
Is born; from what it springs, and why it blooms:
Whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,--
The garnered fragrance of a hundred Junes.
Was it all planned,--or just some lovely blunder?
Thus gazing, with the seeking look that lies
In Childhood's eyes,
She questions:
"Now I want to wonder!"

Dear Child, your groping mind seeks far and true:
Mankind and Nature,--all "want to wonder" too.

FREDERIC A. WHITING

FROM A CAR-WINDOW

Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses;
Gold in a pool, from the western glow;
Spread of wings where the last thrush passes--
And thoughts of you as the sun dips low.

Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ...
(_How many summers have died since then?_) ...
I wish you knew how the deepening shadow
Lies on the blue and green again!

Dusk, and the curve of field and hollow
Etched in gray when a star appears:
Sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,...
And thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears.

RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING

SONG OF THE WEARY TRAVELLER

I am weary. I would rest
On the wide earth's swelling breast,
Nurtured by the quiet sod
Where the fragrant dew has trod,
Soothed by all the winds that pass,
Hearing voices in the grass
Of the little insect things
Happier than the mightiest kings!

I am weary. I would sleep
In some quiet perfumed deep
Where no human touch could bring
Tears to me or anything.
There I would forget to weep
And my silent cloister keep,--
There I would the earth embrace
Meeting Beauty face to face.

I am weary. I would go
Where the fields are white with snow,
Where the violets are lain
Far from human strife and pain--
Far from longing and delight,
Thro' the endless starry night,
There I would forget to weep,
And my silent cloister keep.

BLANCHE SHOEMAKER WAGSTAFF

COBWEBS

Who would not praise thee, miracle of Frost?
Some gesture overnight, some breath benign,
And lo! the tree's a fountain all a-shine,
The hedge a throne of unimagined cost;
In wheel and fan along a wall embossed,
The spider's humble handiwork shows fine
With jewels girdling every airy line;
Though the small mason in the cold be lost.

Web after web, a morning snare of bliss
Starring with beauty the whole neighbourhood,
May well beget an envy clean and good.
When man goes too into the earth-abyss,
And God in His altered garden walks, I would
My secret woof might gleam so fair as this.

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

BLIND

The Spring blew trumpets of color;
Her Green sang in my brain--
I heard a blind man groping
"Tap--tap" with his cane;

I pitied him his blindness;
But can I boast, "I see?"
Perhaps there walks a spirit
Close by, who pities me,--

A spirit who hears me tapping
The five-sensed cane of mind
Amid such unguessed glories--
That I--am worse than blind!

HARRY KEMP

HERB OF GRACE

I do not know what sings in me--
I only know it sings
When pale the stars, and every tree
Is glad with waking wings.

I only know the air is sweet
With wondrous flowers unseen--
That unaccountably complete
Is June's accustomed green.

The wind has magic in its touch;
Strange dreams the sunsets give.
Life I have questioned overmuch--
To-day, I live.

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR

BEFORE MARY OF MAGDALA CAME

Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden;
and in the garden a new sepulchre.... The first day of the
week cometh Mary Magdalene early ... unto the sepulchre....
And ... she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing....
Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith
unto him ... Master. St. John.

From silvering mid-sea to the Syrian sand,
It was the time of blossom in the land.
On field and hill and down the steep ravine,
Ran foam and fire of bloom and ripple of green.
The Sepulchre was open wide, and thrown
Among the crushed, hurt lilies lay the Stone.
A light wind stirred the Garden: everywhere
The smell of myrrh was out upon the air.
For three days He had traveled with the dead,
And now was risen to go with stiller tread
The old earth ways again,
To stay the heart and build the hope of men.
He made a luster in that leafy place,
His form serene, majestical; His face
Touched with a cryptic beauty like the sea
Lit by the moon when night begins to be.

The cold gray east was warming into rose
Beyond the steep ravine where Kedron goes.
Now suddenly on the morning faint with flame
Jerusalem with all her clamors came--
A snarl of noises from the far-off street,
Dispute and barter and the clack of feet.
A moment it brawled upward and was gone--
Faded, forgotten in the deep still dawn.
He passed across the morning: felt the cool,
Keen, kindling air blown upward from the pool.
A busy wind brought little tender smells
From barley fields and weeds by April wells.
Up in the tree-tops where the breezes ran
The old sweet noises in the nests began;
And once He paused to listen while a bird
Shouted the joy till all the Garden heard.

There in the morning, on the old worn ways--
New-risen from the sacrament of death--
He looked toward Olivet with tender gaze:
Old things of the heart came back from other days--
The happy, homely shop in Nazareth;
The noonday shadow of a wayside tree
That had befriended Him in Galilee;
Sweet talks in Bethany by the chimney stone,
And night-long lingering talks with John alone.
And then He thought of all the weary men
He would have gathered as a mother hen
Gathers her brood under her wings at night.
And then He saw the ages in one flight,
And heard as a great sea
All of the griefs that had been and must be....

As He stood looking on the endless sky,
Over the Garden went a sobbing cry.
He turned, and saw where the tall almonds are
His Mary of Magdala, wildly pale,
Fast-fleeting down the trail,
And suddenly His face was like a star!
He spoke; she knew--a blaze of happy tears;
Then "Master!" ... and the word rings down the years!

EDWIN MARKHAM

CONSCIENCE

Wisdom am I
When thou art but a fool;
My part the man,
When thou hast played the clod;
Hast lost thy garden?
When the eve is cool,
Harken!--'tis I who walk
There with thy God!

MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON

ROSA MYSTICA

This rose so exquisite,
So perfect, so complete,
Beauty beyond all price,--
With the hour it dies.

God makes Him roses fast,
With such magnificent haste,
Multitudes, multitudes,
In gardens, fields and woods.

The roses tell His praise
Their little length of days;
Testify to His name,
Gold on gold, flame on flame.

They are scarce here, scarce blown,
But they are gone, are flown;
The gardener's broom must sweep them
And in the darkness heap them.

Drift of rose-leaves upon
The garden-bed, the lawn:
The exquisite thought of God
Is scattered, wasted abroad.

What of the soul of the rose?
It shall not die with those;
It shall wake, shall live again
In God's rose-garden.

It shall climb rose-trellises
Before God's palaces;
The Eternal Rose shall cover
The House of God all over.

She shall breathe out her soul
And yet living, made whole,
Shall offer her oblation
Out of her purest passion.

She shall know all bliss
Where God's garden is:
The rose drinking her fill is
Of joy with her sister lilies.

Where the Water of Life sweet
Bathes her from head to feet,
The River of Life flows--
There is the Rose.

KATHARINE TYNAN

THE MYSTERY

He came and took me by the hand
Up to a red rose tree,
He kept His meaning to Himself
But gave a rose to me.

I did not pray Him to lay bare
The mystery to me,
Enough the rose was Heaven to smell
And His own face to see.

RALPH HODGSON

THE ROSE

And so must life be many-veined;
The loves that hurt, the fate that blent
My life with myriad lives and ways,
The processes that probed and pained,
The pencillings of nights and days--
Cross currents, tangling as they went,
With oh, such conflict in my soul!--
How should I know that they were meant
Just to make living sweet and whole,
Just to unclose
God's perfect rose?

ANGELA MORGAN

FOR THESE

An acre of land between the shore and the hills,
Upon a ledge that shows my Kingdoms three,
The lovely visible earth and sky and sea,
Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills:

A house that shall love me as I love it,
Well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash trees
That linnets, greenfinches, and goldfinches
Shall often visit and make love in and flit;

A garden I need never go beyond,
Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every one
Are fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun:
A spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond!

For these I ask not, but neither too late
Nor yet too early, for what men call content,--
And also that something may be sent
To be contented with, I ask of fate.

EDWARD THOMAS (EDWARD EASTAWAY)

SAMUEL GARDNER

I who kept the greenhouse,
Lover of trees and flowers,
Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm,
Measuring its generous branches with my eye,
And listened to its rejoicing leaves
Lovingly patting each other
With sweet aeolian whispers.
And well they might:
For the roots had grown so wide and deep
That the soil of the hill could not withhold
Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain,
And warmed by the sun;
But yielded it all to the thrifty roots,
Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk,
And thence to the branches, and into the leaves,
Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang.
Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see
That the branches of a tree
Spread no wider than its roots.
And how shall the soul of a man
Be larger than the life he has lived?

EDGAR LEE MASTERS

SEEDS

What shall we be like when
We cast this earthly body and attain
To immortality?
What shall we be like then?

Ah, who shall say
What vast expansions shall be ours that day?
What transformations of this house of clay,
To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?
Ah, who shall say?

But this we know,--
We drop a seed into the ground,
A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry,
And, in the fulness of its time, is seen
A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned
Beyond the pride of any earthly queen,
Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare,
The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.

This from a shrivelled seed?--
--Then may man hope indeed!

For man is but the seed of what he shall be,
When, in the fulness of his perfecting,
He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way,
Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay,
Into the sunshine of God's perfect day.
No fetters then! No bonds of time or space!
But powers as ample as the boundless grace
That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness,
Set wide the door, and passed Himself before--
As He had promised--to prepare a place.

Yea, we may hope!
For we are seeds,
Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.
Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care
May find some use for even a humble tare.

We know not what we shall be--only this--
That we shall be made like Him--as He is.

JOHN OXENHAM

"LORD, I ASK A GARDEN"

Lord, I ask a garden in a quiet spot
where there may be a brook with a good flow,
an humble little house covered with bell-flowers
and a wife and a son who shall resemble Thee.

I should wish to live many years, free from hates,
and make my verses, as the rivers
that moisten the earth, fresh and pure.
Lord, give me a path with trees and birds.

I wish that you would never take my mother,
for I should wish to tend her as a child
and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old
she may need the sun.

R. AREVALO MARTINEZ

MY FLOWER-ROOM

My flower-room is such a little place,
Scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that space
I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour
Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing Cause,
About His laws.
And he has shown me, in each vine and flower,
Such miracles of power
That day by day this flower-room of mine
Has come to be a shrine.

Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere,
Pale, tender shoots appear,
Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.
One speeds to crimson bloom,
One slowly creeps to unassuming grace,
One climbs, one trails,
One drinks the light and moisture,
One exhales.
Up through the earth together, stem by stem,
Two plants push swiftly in a floral race,
Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem,
And one gives only fragrance.
In a seed,
So small it scarce is felt within the hand,
Lie hidden such delights
Of scents and sights,
When by the elements of Nature freed,
As paradise must have at its command.

From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things,
What gorgeous beauty springs!
Such infinite variety appears,
A hundred artists in a hundred years
Could never copy from a floral world
The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.
Nor could the most colossal mind of man
Create one little seed of plant or vine
Without assistance from the First Great Plan,
Without the aid divine.

Who but a God
Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold,
And fashion in earth's mold,
A multitude of blooms to deck one sod?
Who but a God?
Not one man knows
Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose,
Or how its tints were blent;
Or why the white camellia, without scent,
Up through the same soil grows;
Or how the daisy and the violet
And blades of grass first on wild meadows met.
Not one, not one man knows,
The wisest but suppose.
This flower-room of mine
Has come to be a shrine,
And I go hence
Each day with larger faith and reverence.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

"VESTURED AND VEILED WITH TWILIGHT"

Vestured and veiled with twilight,
Lulled in the winter's ease,
Dim, and happy, and silent,
My garden dreams by its trees.

Urn of the sprayless fountain,
Glimmering nymph and faun,
Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar,
Fade on the dusky lawn.

Here is no stir of summer,
Here is no pulse of spring;
Never a bud to burgeon,
Never a bird to sing.

Dreams--and the kingdom of quiet!
Only the dead leaves lie
Over the fallen roses
Under the shrouded sky.

Folded and fenced with silence
Mindless of moil and mart,
It is twilight here in my garden,
And twilight here in my heart.

ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH

The path runs straight between the flowering rows,
A moonlit path hemmed in by beds of bloom,
Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room
With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.
'Tis reckless prodigality which throws
Into the night these wafts of rich perfume
Which sweep across the garden like a plume.
Over the trees a single bright star glows.
Dear garden of my childhood, here my years
Have run away like little grains of sand;
The moments of my life, its hopes and fears
Have all found utterance here, where now I stand;
My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears,
You are my home, do you not understand?

AMY LOWELL

WOOD SONG

I heard a woodthrush in the dusk
Twirl three notes and make a star--
My heart that walked with bitterness
Came back from very far.

Three shining notes were all he had,
And yet they made a starry call--
I caught life back against my breast
And kissed it, scars and all.

SARA TEASDALE

A PRAYER

Teach me, Father, how to go
Softly as the grasses grow;
Hush my soul to meet the shock
Of the wild world as a rock;
But my spirit, propt with power,
Make as simple as a flower.
Let the dry heart fill its cup,
Like a poppy looking up;
Let life lightly wear her crown,
Like a poppy looking down,
When its heart is filled with dew
And its life begins anew.