Part 11

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 æolian 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.