The Melody of Earth Part 32

Here pinks with spices in their throats Nod by the bitter marigold; Here nightingales with haunting notes, When west and east with stars are bold, From out the twisted hawthorn-trees, Sing back the weathers old.

All tuneful winds do down it pa.s.s; The leaves a sudden whiteness show, And delicate noises fill the gra.s.s; The only flakes its s.p.a.ces know Are petals blown off briers long, And heaped on blades below.

Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year, 'Tis more than these that keeps it rare!

We see the saintly Master here, Pacing along the alleys fair, And catch the throbbing of a song Across the amber air!

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

IN AN OXFORD GARDEN

As one whose road winds upward turns his face Unto the valleys where he late hath stood, Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood On many a beauty of the distant place, So I in this cool garden pause a s.p.a.ce, Reviewing many things in many a mood, Acc.u.mulating friends in solitude From the a.s.sembly of my thoughts and days.

ARTHUR UPSON

THE HOMELY GARDEN

"GRANDMOTHER'S GATHERING BONESET"

_Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day; In the garret she'll dry and hang it away.

Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea-- I wish she wouldn't think always of me!_

EDITH M. THOMAS

A BREATH OF MINT

What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might?

What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, To blur my page with swift remembering?

Borne in a country basket marketward, Their message is a music spirit-heard,

A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run Of tawny singing water in the sun.

Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through

My mellow meadows set with linden-trees Loud with the summer jargon of the bees.

Their magic has its way with me until I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill

As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again, To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.

O sudden urging sweetness in the air, Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,

Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

A SELLER OF HERBS

Black, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares.

Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes, Grown by a kitchen wall.

Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs In a field's hollow set.

My s.n.a.t.c.h of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me.

The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the gra.s.s, High over the town roar I hear, When that old stall I pa.s.s.

What homely memories are mine, At sight of her quaint stalks; Of grave dusks mellowing like wine Down long, box-bordered walks;

Of garret windows eastward thrust, Of rafters s.h.i.+ning dim, And heaped with herbs as gray as dust All scented to the brim.

This lady of the market-place, Three times a week and more, I pray her seasons thick with grace; And ever at her door,

Shut from the road by wall of stone, And ample cherry trees, A garden fair as Herrick's own, And just as full of bees!

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

LAVENDER

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 cuc.u.mbers 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 s.h.i.+nes.

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!