Part 4

"In its first radiance I have seen The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night? I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!"

FLORENCE EARLE COATES

THE BLOSSOMY BARROW

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want' To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'. I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place, But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace"; Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all, An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall. Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day, An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away; He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees land An' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand! I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gat Som' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?" "O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said, An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed. Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor, But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door, Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed, An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red, Smile out from da vina so pretty an' green Dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine. I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?" An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal! I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng; I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!"

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all. Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

T. A. DALY

LARKSPUR

Blue morning and the beloved, The hill-garden and I ...

Blue morning and the beloved, Leaning, laughing and plucking, Plucking wet roses ...

(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, Song, sun, And still morning air.)

I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue And held it, A blossom against the sky ...

And heaven opened out In one small flower-face ...

And the beloved, Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, Lifted her face With eyes of china-blue.

(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: Light, dew, And laughter of my love.)

JAMES OPPENHEIM

THE JULY GARDEN

It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze; And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!"

So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing At clusters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.

And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells--

And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon The blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden And what is half so lovely as my garden in July?

ROBERT ERNEST VERNÈDE

"MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS"

Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays; Gay flower petals strew --Pearl, emerald and blue-- The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass; The pools are clear as glass Between the white cups of the lily-flowers; The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please.

The air is pearly, iridescent, pure; These profound and radiant noons mature, Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light; Familiar roads to distances invite Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.

Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, No other garden with such grace and power; And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.

EMILE VERHAEREN

POPPIES

O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days, The season's emblems ye, As nodding lazily Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, And soothe the tired gazer's sense With lulling surges of your softest somnolence.

Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed With tender ruby glow. Not any flowers that blow Can match the glory of your gleaming red; Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew.

Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, And bright the velvet vest On the nasturtium's breast; Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, And bright the coreopsis' eye;-- But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie.

O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well; Your glorious crimson tide The mossy walk beside Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; And walking there we gladly bless Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness.

JOHN RUSSELL HAYES

THE GARDEN IN AUGUST

From corn-crib by the level pasture-lands To knoll where spruce and boulders hide the road I know it like a book, and when my heart Is waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds, I come here till it gently blooms again. For gardens yield rich fruits that will outlast The autumn and the winter of the soul, Richest to him who toils with loving hands. 'Tis delving thus we learn life's secrets told But to those favored few who dig for them. The Garden is an intimate and keeps In touch with us, yet hath its own high moods, And doth impose them on the mind of man To shame his pettiness. So do I love Its shimmering August mood keyed to the sun, A harlequin of color, birds and bloom. Nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blaze By vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burn In scarlet shadow of Jerusalem-cross; Beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid rule Barbaric marigolds; chrysanthemums Outshine gladioli, and sunflowers flaunt Their crests of gold beneath the giant gourds. Within the arbor, script forgot, I muse, While gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and fro To mark the silences, and butterflies Flit in and out like some bright memory, And blinding poppies kindle slow watch-fires Before the golden altar of the sun.

A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sits With finger on her lips as if she heard The steps of Autumn echo on the hill. A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreams Of timid crocus thrust through drifted snow.

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

SUN, CARDINAL, AND CORN FLOWERS

Whence gets Earth her gold for thee, O Sunflower? Her woven, yellow locks so fine Must go to make that gold of thine.

And whence thy red beside the stream, O Cardinal-flower? She pricks some vein lies near her heart That thy rich, ruddy hue may start.

And whence thy blue amid the corn, O Corn-flower? Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee, The glories of her work to see.

HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL

SUNFLOWERS

My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through.

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE END OF SUMMER

When poppies in the garden bleed, And coreopsis goes to seed, And pansies, blossoming past their prime, Grow small and smaller all the time, When on the mown field, shrunk and dry, Brown dock and purple thistle lie, And smoke from forest fires at noon Can make the sun appear the moon, When apple seeds, all white before, Begin to darken in the core, I know that summer, scarcely here, Is gone until another year.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

A LATE WALK

When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of the withered weeds Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rustling down.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

ROBERT FROST

COLOR NOTES

The brown of fallen leaves, The duller brown Of withered moss Stubble and bared sheaves, And pale light filtering down The fields across.

The gray of slender trees, The softer gray Of melting skies. What sobering ecstasies One drinks on such a day With chastened eyes!

CHARLES WHARTON STORK

THE GOLDEN BOWL

I stand upon the broad and rounded summit Of a high hill In the full golden flood of an October day Nearing to twilight. Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes. Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, Nearer a hawthorn tree Drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green grass. I stand with head thrown back, Seeing and breathing deep, My arms stretched out, in my two hands I hold a golden bowl. Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow lustre of its hollow sphere, Fruits like great gems, A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, A cluster of grapes-- Amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, And on them lies a rose.

Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul, Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, Topped with the rosy spray of grace, A rose, As though dropped to me from the sky above, A crowning thing, Love, I lift and hold you out, An offering, And close my eyes.

MARY MCMILLAN

THE AUTUMN ROSE

A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose, Haunting my garden that you once loved well: Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close, And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell Your loveliness was fairer than a dream! But now your pride of beauty is all gone, And like some poor sad penitent you seem, Whose drooping head but hides a visage wan And wasted by the coldness of the world. Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, Within your petals lies a tear impearled; I hear you to my garden say good-bye.

A sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow Hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow?

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

INDIAN SUMMER

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under the moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction, While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them.

SARA TEASDALE

"FROST TO-NIGHT"

Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will. Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,-- The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,--the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-night--so clear and dead-still ..." Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

EDITH M. THOMAS

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen ... With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

ADELAIDE CRAPSEY

THE SNOW-GARDENS

Like an empty stage The gardens are empty and cold; The marble terraces rise Like vases that hold no flowers; The lake is frozen, the fountain still; The marble walls and the seats Are useless and beautiful. Ah, here Where the wind and the dusk and the snow are All is silent and white and sad! Why do I think of you? Why does your name remorselessly Strike through my heart? Why does my soul awaken and shudder? Why do I seem to hear Cries as lovely as music? Surely you never came Into these pale snow-gardens; Surely you never stood Here in the twilight with me; Yet here I have lingered and dreamed Of a face as subtle as music, Of golden hair, and of eyes Like a child's ... I have felt on my brow Your finger-tips, plaintive as music ... O Wonder of all wonders, O Love-- Wrought of sweet sounds and of dreaming!-- Why do you not emerge From the lilac pale petals of dusk, And come to me here in the gardens Where the wind and the snow are?

Beauty and Peace are here-- And unceasing music-- And a loneliness chill and wistful, Like the feeling of death.

Like a crystal lily a star Leans from its leaves of silver And gleams in the sky; And golden and faint in the shadows You wait indistinctly,-- Like a phantom lamp that appears In the mirror of distance that hovers By the window at twilight-- You have come--and we stand together, With questioning eyes-- Dreaming and cold and ghostly In an empty garden that seems Like an empty stage.

ZOË AKINS

A SONG FOR WINTER

Speak not of snow and cold and rime Now they prevail. Would you have joy in winter-time, Think of the pale New green that comes, of blossoming lilacs think, Larkspur, and borders of the fringèd pink. And sing, if winter grants you heart to sing, Of summer and of spring.

Would you secure some happiness In frosty hours, Trust to the eye external less Than to the powers Of inward sight that even now may show Opaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glow Of daybreak on the glades where thrushes sing In summer and in spring.

Gaze not on fettered lake and brook And sullen skies, But in your happy memory look Where beauty lies As once it was, as it shall be again When sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain, And sing, as must who would in winter sing, Of summer and of spring.

MRS. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER

WINGS AND SONG

"I MEANT TO DO MY WORK TO-DAY"

_I meant to do my work to-day-- But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree And a butterfly flitted across the field, And all the leaves were calling me._

_And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- So what could I do but laugh and go?_

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

THE HUMMINGBIRD

Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away! Hi! little rover, stop and stay.

Merry, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier-- Was ever a bee merrier, airier?

Wings folded so, a second or two-- Was ever a crow more solemn than you?

A-whirr again over the garden, away! Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay?

Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss! What do you know that we humans miss?

In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, In the rose's palace, what do they tell

(When the door you bob in, airily) That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?--

Fearing the crew of chatter and song, And tell to you of the chantless tongue?

Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the sting Masked in gay dress and whirring wing?

Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff! What need to sing? Here's music enough.

A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through! Hi! little rover, fair travel to you.

Sweet, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

HERMANN HAGEDORN

SPRING SONG

Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood song with the ancient thrill.

Gossiping on the countryside, Spring and the wandering breezes say God has thrown heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day.

WILLIAM GRIFFITH

NIGHTINGALES

At sunset my brown nightingales Hidden and hushed all day, Ring vespers, while the color pales And fades to twilight gray: The little mellow bells they ring, The little flutes they play, Are soft as though for practising The things they want to say. It's when the dark has floated down To hide and guard and fold, I know their throats that look so brown, Are really made of gold. No music I have ever heard Can call as sweet as they! I wonder if it _is_ a bird That sings within the hidden tree, Or some shy angel calling me To follow far away?

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE GOLDFINCH

Down from the sky on a sudden he drops Into the mullein and juniper tops, Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.

Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, Then with a flash of bewildering wings Dazzles away up and down, and he sings Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies Bounding along on the wave of the skies.

Sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire, Motion and melody married to fire, Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, Frailer than violets, how shall we find Words that will match him, discover a name Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?

How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, Find us a wonderful music to sing with him Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily High in the burning blue, winging so airily?

ODELL SHEPARD

KINFOLK

O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,-- The little mother-bird all brown, Who broods above her nest on high, And with her soft, bright eyes looks down To read the secret of my heart,-- We two from all the world apart!

She dreams there in her swaying nest; I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine. The same love stirs her feathered breast That makes my heart-throb seem divine. We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,-- The small brown mother-bird, and I.

KATE WHITING PATCH

A MOCKING-BIRD

An arrow, feathery, alive, He darts and sings,-- Then with a sudden skimming dive Of striped wings He finds a pine and, debonair, Makes with his mate All birds that ever rested there Articulate.

The whisper of a multitude Of happy wings Is round him, a returning brood, Each time he sings. Though heaven be not for them or him Yet he is wise, And daily tiptoes on the rim Of paradise.

WITTER BYNNER

THE CARDINAL-BIRD

Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along, A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song, My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing, Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring.

A plump little prelate, the park is his church; The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch; And there, in his rubicund livery dressed, Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest,

He preaches, with most unconventional glee, A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me, Commending the wisdom of those that display The brightest of colors when heavens are gray.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

YELLOW WARBLERS

The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies, When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes, I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,-- A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,-- Beyond my casement had been void of song.

And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set, Live buds that warbled like a rivulet Beneath a veil of willows. Then I knew Those tiny voices, clear as drops of dew, Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue,

Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles-- Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured miles Innumerable over land and sea With wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee, They filled that dark old oak with jubilee,

Foretelling in delicious roundelays Their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays, How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate, Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate, To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate.

Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once more From lyric dawn through dreamland's open door, And there was God, Eternal Life that sings Eternal joy, brooding all mortal things, A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings.

KATHARINE LEE BATES

WITCHERY

Out of the purple drifts, From the shadow sea of night, On tides of musk a moth uplifts Its weary wings of white.

Is it a dream or ghost Of a dream that comes to me, Here in the twilight on the coast, Blue cinctured by the sea?

Fashioned of foam and froth-- And the dream is ended soon, And, lo, whence came the moon-white moth Comes now the moth-white moon!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

THE SPRING BEAUTIES

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!"

HELEN GRAY CONE

THE MOCKING-BIRD

He didn't know much music When first he come along; An' all the birds went wonderin' Why he didn't sing a song.