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BLISS CARMAN
HOMESICK
O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream!
I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by.
I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow, And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, And b.u.t.terflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil.
O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west!
O, the wild grape climbing st.u.r.dily to reach the oriole's nest!
O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep!
Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars.
O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you, And I turn from storied castle, h.o.a.ry fane, and ruined shrine, To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies s.h.i.+ne--
With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes All the dim, resplendent s.p.a.ces and the mazy stardrifts through To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew!
JULIA C. R. DORR
THE WAYS OF TIME
As b.u.t.terflies are but winged flowers, Half sorry for their change, who fain, So still and long they live on leaves, Would be thought flowers again.--
E'en so my thoughts, that should expand, And grow to higher themes above, Return like b.u.t.terflies to lie On the old things I love.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
A MIDSUMMER GARDEN
There is a little garden-close, Girdled by golden apple trees, That through the long sweet summer hours Is haunted by the hum of bees.
The poppy tosses here its torch, And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire, And regally the larkspur lifts The slender azure of its spire.
And from the phlox and mignonette Rich attars drift on every hand; And when star-vestured twilight comes The pale moths weave a saraband.
And crickets in the aisles of gra.s.s With their clear fifing pierce the hush; And somewhere you may hear anear The pa.s.sion of the hermit-thrush.
It is a place where dreams convene, Dreams of the dead years gone astray, Of love and loveliness borne back From some forgotten yesterday.
It is a memory-hallowed spot Where joy a.s.sumes its vernal guise, And two walk silent side by side, Youth's glory s.h.i.+ning in their eyes.
CLINTON SCOLLARD
THE WHITE ROSE
This is the spirit flower, The ghost of an old regret; All night she stands in the garden-close, And her face with tears is wet.
But I love the pale white rose, For she always seems to me A pallid nun who dreams all day Of a distant memory.
Alas! how well I know That every garden spot Is haunted by a gentle ghost Who will not be forgot.
In the garden of the heart, Ere the sun of life is set, O many a wild rose blooms and dreams Of many an old regret!
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
A HAUNTED GARDEN
Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies.
Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy gra.s.ses droop-- The night wind falls.
The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well.
Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands....
Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.
Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools.
Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred ...
Was it a breeze that pa.s.sed?
Was it a bird?
Dead roses lift their heads Out of a gra.s.sy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom.
The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride ...
_Who entered in?_
LOUIS UNTERMEYER
THE DUSTY HOUR-GLa.s.s
It had been a trim garden, With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers, and smooth-raked walks.
Silks and satins had brushed the box edges of its alleys.
The curved stone lips of its fishponds had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs.
The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns, and swayed to the music of flutes and violins.
Now, the fishponds are green with sc.u.m; And paths and flower-beds are run together and overgrown.
Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhouse not yet in ruins.
Through the lozenged panes of its windows, you can see the interior: A dusty bench; a fireplace, with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it; A broken ball of worsted rolled away into a corner.
_Dolci, dolci, i giorni pa.s.sati!_
AMY LOWELL
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
