Part 3

What he may be, who knows? But we are his, We roll through nothing round him, year by year, The withering leaves upon a tree which is Each with his greed, his little power, his fear.

What we may be, who knows? But everyone Is dust on dust a servant of the sun.

JOHN MASEFIELD

CHARM: TO BE SAID IN THE SUN

I reach my arms up, to the sky, And golden vine on vine Of sunlight showered wild and high, Around my brows I twine.

I wreathe, I wind it everywhere, The burning radiancy Of brightness that no eye may dare, To be the strength of me.

Come, redness of the crystalline, Come green, come hither blue And violet--all alive within, For I have need of you.

Come honey-hue and flush of gold, And through the pallor run, With pulse on pulse of manifold New largess of the Sun!

O steep the silence till it sing! O glories from the height, Come down, where I am garlanding With light, a child of light!

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

THE DIALS

With fingers softer than the touch of death The sundial writes the passing of the day, The hours unfolding slow to twilight gray, The gleaming moments vanish in a breath.

But sunny hours alone the sundial names; All unrecorded are the midnight spans And vain within the dusk the watcher scans The marble face; thereon no record flames.

So on eternal dials that God may hold, And those more humble in the human heart, No bitter deeds their passing hours impart; Kind deeds alone are marked in fadeless gold!

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH

TO A NEW SUNDIAL

Oh, Sundial, you should not be young, Or fresh and fair, or spick and span! None should remember when began Your tenure here, nor whence you sprung!

Like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd, I would have had you sadly tow'r Above this world of leaf and flower All ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd;

Ambassador of Time and Fate, In contrast stern to bud and bloom, Seeming half temple and half tomb, And wholly solemn and sedate;

Till, one with God's own works on earth, The lake, the vale, the mountain-brow, We might have come to count you now Whose home was here before our birth.

But lo! a priggish, upstart thing-- Set here to tell so old a truth-- How fleeting are our days of youth-- _You_, that were only made last spring!

Go to!... What sermon can you preach, Oh, mushroom--mentor pert and new? We are too old to learn of you What you are all too young to teach!

Yet, Sundial, you and I may swear Eternal friendship, none the less, For I'll respect your youthfulness If you'll forgive my silver hair!

VIOLET FANE

THE FOUNTAIN

I thought my garden finished. I beheld Each bush bee-visited; a green charm quelled The louder winds to music; soft boughs made Patches of silver dusk and purple shade-- And yet I felt a lack of something still.

There was a little, sleepy-footed rill That lapsed among sun-burnished stones, where slept Fish, rainbow-scaled, while dragon-flies, adept, Balanced on bending grass.

All perfect? No. My garden lacked a fountain's upward flow. I coaxed the brook's young Naiad to resign Her meadow wildness, building her a shrine Of worship, where each ravished waif of air Might wanton in the brightness of her hair.

So here my fountain flows, loved of the wind, To every vagrant, aimless gust inclined, Yet constant ever to its source. It greets The face of morning, wavering windy sheets Of woven silver; sheer it climbs the noon, A shaft of bronze; and underneath the moon It sleeps in pearl and opal. In the storm It streams far out, a wild, gray, blowing form; While on calm days it heaps above the lake,-- Pelting the dreaming lilies half awake, And pattering jewels on each wide, green frond,-- Recurrent pyramids of diamond!

HARRY KEMP

THE PAGEANTRY OF GARDENS

THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS

_God spoke! and from the arid scene Sprang rich and verdant bowers, Till all the earth was soft with green,-- He smiled; and there were flowers._

MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA

THE WELCOME

God spreads a carpet soft and green O'er which we pass; A thick-piled mat of jeweled sheen-- And that is Grass.

Delightful music woos the ear; The grass is stirred Down to the heart of every spear-- Ah, that's a Bird.

Clouds roll before a blue immense That stretches high And lends the soul exalted sense-- That scroll's a Sky.

Green rollers flaunt their sparkling crests; Their jubilee Extols brave Captains and their quests-- And that is Sea.

New-leaping grass, the feathery flute, The sapphire ring, The sea's full-voiced, profound salute,-- Ah, this is Spring!

ARTHUR POWELL

THE JOY OF THE SPRINGTIME

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence, The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam, The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes, The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden Watching the petals of gladness unclose?

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret, The bliss at the core of your magical mirth, That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth, That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom The roots of delight in the heart of the earth?

SAROJINI NAIDU

SPRING

At the first hour, it was as if one said, "Arise." At the second hour, it was as if one said, "Go forth." And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes Sank below the white horizon at the north.

At the third hour, it was as if one said, "I thirst;" At the fourth hour, all the earth was still: Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst; And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.

At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne; At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried; At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown, At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.

At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb; And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours. But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.

JOHN GOULD FLETCHER

PRIMAVERA

Spirit immortal of mortality, Imperishable faith, calm miracle Of resurrection, truth no tongue can tell, No brain conceive,--now witnessed utterly In this new testament of earth and sea,-- To us thy gospel! Where the acorn fell The oak-tree springs: no seed is infidel! Once more, O Wonder, flower and field and tree Reveal thy secret and significance! And we, who share unutterable things And feel the foretaste of eternity, Haply shall learn thy meaning and perchance Set free the soul to lift immortal wings And cross the frontiers of infinity.

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

THE GREEN O' THE SPRING

Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to see the sunshine, 'Tis fine to feel its glow; 'Tis fine to see the buds break On boughs that bare have been-- But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, afther all the winther, An' afther all the snow, 'Tis fine to hear the brooks sing As on their way they go; 'Tis fine to hear at mornin' The voice of robineen, But best of all to Irish eyes 'Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, here in grim New England The spring is always slow, An' every bit o' green grass Is kilt wid frost and snow; Ah, many a heart is weary The winther days, I ween But oh, the joy when springtime comes An' brings the blessed green!

DENIS A. MCCARTHY

AN APRIL MORNING

Once more in misted April The world is growing green. Along the winding river The plumey willows lean.

Beyond the sweeping meadows The looming mountains rise, Like battlements of dreamland Against the brooding skies.

In every wooded valley The buds are breaking through, As though the heart of all things No languor ever knew.

The golden-wings and bluebirds Call to their heavenly choirs. The pines are blued and drifted With smoke of brushwood fires.

And in my sister's garden Where little breezes run, The golden daffodillies Are blowing in the sun.

BLISS CARMAN

"WITH MEMORIES AND ODORS"

With memories and odors The wind is warm and mild; The earth is like a mother Where leaps the unborn child.

The grackles flock returning Like rain-clouds from the south. And all the world lies yearning Toward summer, mouth to mouth.

How soft the hills and hazy Seen through the open door!-- The crocus shines, a virgin, White from the grassy floor.

The children whirl around in a ring, And laugh and sing, and dance and sing: But the blackbird whistles clear, O clear, "The Spring, the Spring!"

JOHN HALL WHEELOCK

APRIL RAIN

Fall, rain! You are the blood of coming blossom, You shall be music in the young birds' throats, You shall be breaking, soon, in silver notes; A virgin laughter in the young earth's bosom. Oh, that I could with you reënter earth, Pass through her heart and come again to sun, Out of her fertile dark to sing and run In loveliness and fragrance of new mirth! Fall, rain! Into the dust I go with you, Pierce the remaining snows with subtle fire, Warming the frozen roots with soft desire, Dreams of ascending leaves and flowers new. I am no longer body,--I am blood Seeking for some new loveliness of shape; Dark loveliness that dreams of new escape, The sun-surrender of unclosing bud. Take me, O Earth! and make me what you will; I feel my heart with mingled music fill.

CONRAD AIKEN

WHILE APRIL RAIN WENT BY

Under a budding hedge I hid While April rain went by, But little drops came slipping through, Fresh from a laughing sky:

A-many little scurrying drops, Laughing the song they sing, Soon found me where I sought to hide, And pelted me with Spring.

And I lay back and let them pelt, And dreamt deliciously Of lusty leaves and lady-blossoms And baby-buds I'd see

When April rain had laughed the land Out of its wintry way, And coaxed all growing things to greet With gracious garb the May.

SHAEMAS O SHEEL

SPRING

The dews drip roses on the meadows Where the meek daisies dot the sward. And Æolus whispers through the shadows, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord!" The golden news the skylark waketh And 'thwart the heavens his flight is curled; Attend ye as the first note breaketh And chrism droppeth on the world.

The velvet dusk still haunts the stream Where Pan makes music light and gay. The mountain mist hath caught a beam And slowly weeps itself away. The young leaf bursts its chrysalis And gem-like hangs upon the bough, Where the mad throstle sings in bliss O'er earth's rejuvenated brow.

ENVOI

Slowly fall, O golden sands, Slowly fall and let me sing, Wrapt in the ecstasy of youth, The wild delights of Spring.

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

APRIL WEATHER

Oh, hush, my heart, and take thine ease, For here is April weather! The daffodils beneath the trees Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note; The scarlet tulip blowing; And white--ay, white as my love's throat-- The dogwood boughs are glowing.

The lilac bush is sweet again; Down every wind that passes, Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane; The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in, And Care is but a feather; And every lad his love can win, For here is April weather.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

DAFFODILS

There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain: Who buried Love, all spent and still? There flames the first gay daffodil. Go, Love's alive on yonder hill, And yours for asking, joy and pain, There flames the first gay daffodil Where winter-long the snows have lain!

RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING

THE CROCUS FLAME

The Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold O'er the awakening wold. What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, What token of re-birth, Of tender vernal mirth, Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?

Under the kindling panoply which God Spreads over tree and clod, I looked far abroad. Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seer As when the dying year, With rime-white sandals shod, Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier. Of some rathe quickening, some divine Renascence not a sign!

And yet, and yet, With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred, And one lone bird An unexpected jet Of song projected through the morning blue, As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.

And so I gathered heart, and cried again: "O earth, make plain, At this matutinal hour, The triumph and the power Of life eternal over death and pain, Although it be but by some simple flower!"

And then, with sudden light, Was dowered my veilèd sight, And I beheld in a sequestered place A slender crocus show its sun-bright face. O miracle of Grace, Earth's Easter answer came, The revelation of transfiguring Might, In that small crocus flame!

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE EARLY GODS

It is the time of violets. It is the very day When in the shadow of the wood Spring shall have her say, Remembering how the early gods Came up the violet way. Are there not violets And gods-- To-day?

WITTER BYNNER

A TULIP GARDEN

Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace! Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye Of purple batteries, every gun in place. Forward they come, with flaunting colors spread, With torches burning, stepping out in time To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime Parades the army. With our utmost powers We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.

AMY LOWELL

TULIPS

Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows, Coming while breezes of April are cold, Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees you Thrusting your spears through the redolent mold.

Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers, Drink! ere the pageant of Spring passes by! Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals, Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky!

Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans, Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares, Nodding so solemn by fountain and column, What is the talk of your weighty affairs?

Pollen and honey (for such is your money),-- Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,-- Prospects of growing,--what colors are showing,-- News of rare tulips from over the sea?

Loitering near you, how often I hear you, Just ere your petals at twilight are furled, Laugh through the grasses while Evelyn passes, "There goes the loveliest flower in the world!"

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

A WHITE IRIS

Tall and clothed in samite, Chaste and pure, In smooth armor,-- Your head held high In its helmet Of silver: Jean D'Arc riding Among the sword blades!

Has Spring for you Wrought visions, As it did for her In a garden?

PAULINE B. BARRINGTON

MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE

May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, And, spinning all day at her secret looms, With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall She pictureth over, and peopleth it all With echoes and dreams, And singing of streams.

May is building her house of petal and blade; Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made, With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, travelling green things strayed.

Her windows the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing, The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea! out of winter's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's.

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

THE MAGNOLIA

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, Perfect and bright is the magnolia born; White as a flake of foam upon still water, White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.

Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned Of Grecian marble in an age remote. Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned, As when a woman bares her rounded throat.

There is a tale of how the moon, her lover, Holds her enchanted by some magic spell; Something about a dove that broods above her, Or dies within her breast--I cannot tell.

I cannot say where I have heard the story, Upon what poet's lips; but this I know: Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.

JOSÉ SANTOS CHOCANO (_Translated by John Pierrepont Rice_)

"GO DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC-TIME"

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!).

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed _tu-whit_, _tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:--

_Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)._

ALFRED NOYES

BEYOND

I wonder if the tides of Spring Will always bring me back again Mute rapture at the simple thing Of lilacs blowing in the rain.

If so, my heart will ever be Above all fear, for I shall know There is a greater mystery Beyond the time when lilacs blow.

THOMAS S. JONES, JR.

JUNE

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming! Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming; I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings, And felt a softness in the air half Summer's and half Spring's.

I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing-- I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing; The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red, For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming, For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming. I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here-- The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

DOUGLAS MALLOCH

JUNE RAPTURE

Green! What a world of green! My startled soul Panting for beauty long denied, Leaps in a passion of high gratitude To meet the wild embraces of the wood; Rushes and flings itself upon the whole Mad miracle of green, with senses wide, Clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast, As one who finds a long-lost love at last. Billows of green that break upon the sight In bounteous crescendos of delight, Wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hills To where the sun its highest rapture spills; Cascades of color tumbling down the height In golden gushes of delicious light-- God! Can I bear the beauty of this day, Or shall I be swept utterly away?

Hush--here are deeps of green, where rapture stills, Sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk; Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet, Wherein a million hidden pulses beat. Look! How the very air takes fire and thrills With hint of heaven pushing through her husk. Ah, joy's not stopped! 'Tis only more intense, Here where Creation's ardors all condense; Here where I crush me to the radiant sod, Close-folded to the very nerves of God. See now--I hold my heart against this tree. The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me. There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veins That does not sting me with ecstatic pains. No twig or tracery, however fine, Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine.

Praised be the gods that made my spirit mad; Kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch. Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate; Gave me so often agony for mate; Tore from my heart the things that make men glad-- Praised be the gods! If I at last, by such Relentless means may know the sacred bliss, The anguished rapture of an hour like this. Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must; Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust, But keep me thus aquiver and awake, Enamoured of my life for living's sake! _This were the tragedy_--that I should pass, Dull and indifferent through the glowing grass. And this the reason I was born, I say-- That I might know the passion of this day!

ANGELA MORGAN

COLUMBINES

Late were we sleeping Deep in the mold, Clasping and keeping Yesterday's gold-- Hoardings of sunshine, Crimson and gold; Dreaming of light till our dream became Aureate bells and beakers of flame,-- Splashed with the splendor of wine of flame. Raindrop awoke us; Zephyr bespoke us; Chick-a-dee called us, Bobolink called us,-- Then we came.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine! And I, who pass without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief.