Part 7

I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathing Their sweet souls out upon the summer night: The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathing Like clouds of incense filled me with delight. And then as if for my still further pleasure There came a flood of sweetest melody,-- But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure, For neither flute nor viol could I see. Then in the vision love sublime, immortal, Encircled all my soul with its pure stream; And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal, I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream. 'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses, In dreams of love, of music, and of roses!

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

THE ROSE

The rose-tree wears a diadem, Both bud and bloom of gold and fire, Too high upon the slender stem For baby hands that reach for them:

And _Roses!_ my brown Elsa cries: Her chubby arms in vain aspire. But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighs And worships them with patient eyes.

I gathered them a rose or two, But not the shy one hanging higher That brushed my lips with honey-dew! _That_ is the rose I send to you.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

PRAYER

Would that I might become you, Losing myself, my sweet!-- So longs the dust that lies About the rose's feet.

So longs the last, dim star Hung on the verge of night;-- She moves--she melts--she slips-- She trembles into the light.

JOHN HALL WHEELOCK

IN A GARDEN

I sat one day within a garden fair Pining for thee and sad because alone, Wishing some fate could send thee to me there.

All things appeared to share my saddened mood, Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view, The very birds in silence seemed to brood.

Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed, Sudden the birds began to sing again, The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed.

Thinking the sun had come once more for me And for all nature, to effect such change, I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee.

LIVINGSTON L. BIDDLE

A SONG OF FAIRIES

Oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden, I hear it stir on every hand. See how the flowers keep still because of it! hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song! There is a secret in it, a blessed mystery. I fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyes grow dim before these unseen wings. And the secret is in other places, it is in songs and music and all lovers' hearts. Hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things.

ELIZABETH KIRBY

A SONG TO BELINDA

Belinda in her dimity, Whereon are wrought pink roses, Trips through the boxwood paths to me, A-down the garden-closes, As though a hundred roses came, ('Twas so I thought) to meet me, As though one rosebud said my name And bent its head to greet me.

Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress You seemed the garden's growing; The tilt and toss o' you, no less Than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay, Lest in that happy hour, Sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway And turn into a flower.

THEODOSIA GARRISON

SWEETHEART-LADY

De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place; De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face; De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word, An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird.

She sweetheart ter de Springtime, W'en de dreamy roses stir, An' Winter shine lak' Summer An' wear a rose fer her.

"Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass; De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!" But des who her true lover she never let 'em know; De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so!

But Springtime come a-courtin' An' let de blossoms fall, An' Summer say: "I loves you!" She sweetheart ter 'em ALL!

FRANK L. STANTON

HEART'S GARDEN

I have a garden filled with many flowers: The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose, Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glows The fairer for the verdure which embowers Their beauty, and sets forth their hidden powers To charm my heart, whenever at the close Of day's dull hurry I would seek repose In my still garden through the darkening hours.

Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart, Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be, Far from the rattle of the city cart, Even as my garden, where daily I may see The flowers of your love, and none from me May win the hidden secret of my heart.

NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR

A ROSE LOVER

Do thou, my rose, incline Thy heart to mine. If love be real Ah, whisper, whisper low That I at last may know. Quick! breathe it now! A sigh,--a tear,--a vow: Oh, any lightest thing Its cadences to sing That loved am I, and not, Ah, not forgot!

FREDERIC A. WHITING

SONNET

The sweet caresses that I gave to you Are but the perfume of the Rose of Love, The color and the witchery thereof, And not the Rose itself. Each is a clue Merely, whereby to seek the hidden, true, Substantial blossom. Like the Jordan dove A kiss is but a symbol from above-- An emblem the Reality shines through.

The Rose of Love is ever unrevealed In all its beauty, for the sight of it Were perilous with purpose of the world. The hand of Life has cautiously concealed The pollen-chamber of the infinite Flower, and its petals only half uncurled.

ELSA BARKER

A SONG IN A GARDEN

Will the garden never forget That it whispers over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover--your lover?" Oh, roses I helped to grow, Oh, lily and mignonette, Must you always question me so, "Where is your lover, Nanette?" Since you looked on my joy one day, Is my grief then a lesser thing? Have you only this to say When I pray you for comforting?

Now that I walk alone Here where our hands were met, Must you whisper me everyone, "Where is your lover, Nanette?"

I have mourned with you year and year, When the Autumn has left you bare, And now that my heart is sere Does not one of your roses care? Oh, help me forget--forget, Nor question over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover--your lover?"

THEODOSIA GARRISON

"IT WAS JUNE IN THE GARDEN"

It was June in the garden, It was our time, our day; And our gaze with love on everything Did fall; They seemed then softly opening, And they saw and loved us both, The roses all.

The sky was purer than all limpid thought; Insect and bird Swept through the golden texture of the air, Unheard; Our kisses were so fair they brought Exaltation to both light and bird. It seemed as though a happiness at once Had skied itself and wished the heavens entire For its resplendent fire; And life, all pulsing life, had entered in, Into the fissures of our beings to the core, To fling them higher.

And there was nothing but invocatory cries, Mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleave The archèd skies, And sudden yearning to create new gods, In order to believe.

EMILE VERHAEREN

TWO ROSES

A fair white rose sedately grows Within the garden wall. There blows No wind to ruff her petals white, No stain of earth, no touch of blight The pure face of my ladye shows. The queen of all the walls enclose Might be mine own, an' if I chose; But yet, but yet I cannot slight My wild red rose.

Outside the garden wall she throws Her clinging tendrils, and she knows How strong the winds of passion smite; She's fragrant, though not faultless quite; Just as she is, none shall depose My wild red rose.

WILLIAM LINDSEY

ROSES

Red roses floating in a crystal bowl You bring, O love; and in your eyes I see, Blossom on blossom, your warm love of me Burning within the crystal of your soul-- Red roses floating in a crystal bowl.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

HER GARDEN

This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,-- It was not ours, when she was here below; And so, in that low bed where she reposes, The beauty of it all she cannot know.

But in the evening when the birds are calling The fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh, And in my empty heart, benignly falling, Becomes a little prayer to send to her.

So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her, Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee, I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her-- Of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me.

LOUIS DODGE

ÆRE PERENNIUS

As long as the stars of God Hang steadfast in the sky, And the blossoms 'neath the sod Awake when Spring is nigh; As long as the nightingale Sings love-songs to the rose, And the Winter wind in the vale Makes moan o'er the virgin snows-- As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee!

As long as the rose of June Bursts forth in crimson fire, And the mellow harvest-moon Shines over hill and spire; As long as heaven's dew At morning kisses the sod; As long as you are you, And I know that God is God-- As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee!

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

EVER THE SAME

King Solomon walked a thousand times Forth of his garden-close; And saw there spring no goodlier thing, Be sure, than the same little rose.

Under the sun was nothing new, Or now, I well suppose. But what new thing could you find to sing More rare than the same little rose?

Nothing is new; save I, save you, And every new heart that grows, On the same Earth met, that nurtures yet Breath of the same little rose.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

THE MESSAGE

When one has heard the message of the Rose, For what faint other calling shall he care? Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair; The vain world keeps her posturing and pose. He, with his crimson secret, which bestows Heaven in his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer, And knows all glory trembling through the air As on triumphal journeying he goes.

So through green woodlands in the twilight dim, Led by the faint, pale argent of a star, What though to others it is weary night, Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him; And, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar, His soul is great with everlasting light.

HELEN HAY WHITNEY

TELL-TALE

The Lily whispered to the Rose: "The Tulip's fearfully stuck up. You'd think to see the creature's pose, She was a golden altar-cup. There's method in her boldness, too; She catches twice her share of Dew."

The Rose into the Tulip's ear Murmured: "The Lily is a sight; Don't you believe she _powders_, dear, To make herself so saintly white? She takes some trouble, it is plain, Her reputation to sustain."

Said Tulip to the Lily white: "About the Rose--what do you think?-- Her color? Should you say it's quite-- Well, quite a natural shade of pink?" "Natural!" the Lily cried. "Good Saints! Why, _everybody_ knows she paints!"

OLIVER HERFORD

DA THIEF

Eef poor man goes An' steals a rose Een Juna-time-- Wan leetla rose-- You gon' su'pose Dat dat's a crime?

Eh! w'at? Den taka look at me, For here bayfore your eyes you see Wan thief dat ees so glad an' proud He gona brag of eet out loud! So moocha good I do, an' feel From dat wan leetla rose I steal, Dat eef I gon' to jail to-day Dey could no tak' my joy away. So, lees'en! here ees how eet com': Las' night w'en I am walkin' home From work een hotta ceety street, Ees sudden com' a smal so sweet Eet maka heaven een my nose-- I look an' dere I see da rose! Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall, Dat peep at me above da wall. So, too, I close my eyes an' find Anudder peecture een my mind; I see a house dat's small an' hot Where manny pretta theengs is not, Where leetla woman, good an' true, Ees work so hard da whole day through, She's too wore out, w'en com's da night, For smile an' mak' da housa bright.

But, presto! now I'm home an' she Ees settin' on da step weeth me. Bambino, sleepin' on her breast, Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, An' nevva was sooch glad su'prise Like now ees shina from her eyes; An' all baycause to-night she wear Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. She ees so please'! Eet mak' me feel I shoulda sooner learned to steal.

Eef "thief's" my name I feel no shame; Eet ees no crime-- Dat rose I got. Eh! w'at? O! not Een Juna-time!

T. A. DALY

RESULTS AND ROSES

The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek, Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.

EDGAR A. GUEST

UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH

MIRACLE

_Yesterday the twig was brown and bare; To-day the glint of green is there To-morrow will be leaflets spare; I know no thing so wondrous fair No miracle so strangely rare._

_I wonder what will next be there!_

L. H. BAILEY

THE AWAKENING

You little, eager, peeping thing-- You embryonic point of light Pushing from out your winter night, How you do make my pulses sing! A tiny eye amid the gloom-- The merest speck I scarce had seen-- So doth God's rapture rend the tomb In this wee burst of April green!

And lo, 'tis here--and lo! 'Tis there-- Spurting its jets of sweet desire In upward curling threads of fire Like tapers kindling all the air. Why, scarce it seems an hour ago These branches clashed in bitter cold; What Power hath set their veins aglow? O soul of mine, be bold, be bold! If from this tree, this blackened thing, Hard as the floor my feet have prest, This flame of joy comes clamoring In hues as red as robin's breast Waking to life this little twig-- O faith of mine, be big! Be big!

ANGELA MORGAN

SHADE

The kindliest thing God ever made, His hand of very healing laid Upon a fevered world, is shade.

His glorious company of trees Throw out their mantles, and on these The dust-stained wanderer finds ease.

Green temples, closed against the beat Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, Open to any pilgrim's feet.

The white road blisters in the sun; Now, half the weary journey done, Enter and rest, Oh, weary one!

And feel the dew of dawn still wet Beneath thy feet, and so forget The burning highway's ache and fret.

This is God's hospitality, And whoso rests beneath a tree Hath cause to thank Him gratefully.

THEODOSIA GARRISON

SELECTION FROM "UNDER THE TREES"

The wonderful, strong, angelic trees, With their blowing locks and their bared great knees And nourishing bosoms, shout all together, And rush and rock through the glad wild weather.

They are so old they teach me, With their strong hands they reach me, Into their breast my soul they take, And keep me there for wisdom's sake.

They teach me little prayers; To-day I am their child; The sweet breath of their innocent airs Blows through me strange and wild.

* * * * *

I never feel afraid Among the trees; Of trees are houses made; And even with these, Unhewn, untouched, unseen, Is something homelike in the safe sweet green, Intimate in the shade.

* * * * *

We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhile In the great kinship. Underneath the trees Let's be at home once more, with birds and bees And gnats and soil and stone. With these I must Acknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust, With wistful and investigating eyes Searches my soul for the old sturdiness, Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these, We learned at her dear knees. Friend, you and I Once played together in the good old days. Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild ways We traveled, when-- That's right! Draw close to me! Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

A GARDEN FRIEND

O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I-- One process lacking of this mortal clay-- Give me your constant outlook to the sky, The courtesy and cheer that fill your day.

Your noble gift of perfect service teach; Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bent Aware 'twill end; your patience that can reach Across the years from clod to firmament.

CATHERINE MARKHAM (MRS. EDWIN MARKHAM)

A LADY OF THE SNOWS

The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branches Oh, so tenderly In the summer sun! Yet she has power to baffle avalanches-- She, rising slenderly Where the rivers run.

So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see her Spread alluringly Her thin sea-green dress! Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free her To bloom unenduringly In his glad caress.

HARRIET MONROE

THE TREE

Spread, delicate roots of my tree, Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing; Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere. Into resistant earth your filaments forcing, Down in the dark, unknown, desirous: The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth, The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will.

Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty, Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant; I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment, Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life. In the sweet curled buds of you, In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light; Veined, cut, perfect to type, Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race.

The open hands of my tree held out to the touch of the air As love that opens its arms and waits on the lover's will; The curtsey, the sway, and the toss of the spray as it sports with the breeze; Rhythmical whisper of leaves that murmur and move in the light; Crying of wind in the boughs, the beautiful music of pain: Thus do you sing and say The sorrow, the effort, the sweet surrender, the joy.

Come! tented leaves of my tree; High summer is here, the moment of passionate life, The hushed, the maternal hour. Deep in the shaded green your mystery shielding, Heir of the ancient woods and parent of forests to be, Lo! to your keeping is given the Father's life-giving thought; The thing that is dream and deed and carries the gift of the past. For this, for this, great tree, The glory of maiden leaves, the solemn stretch of the bough, The wise persistent roots Into the stuff of the world their filaments forcing, Breaking the earth to their need.

* * * * *

Tall tree, your name is peace. You are the channel of God: His mystical sap, Elixir of infinite love, syrup of infinite power, Swelling and shaping, brooding and hiding, With out-thrust of delicate joy, with pitiless pageant of death, Sings in your cells; Its rhythmical cycle of life In you is fulfilled.

EVELYN UNDERHILL

"LOVELIEST OF TREES"

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

A. E. HOUSMAN

THE SPIRIT OF THE BIRCH

I am the dancer of the wood I shimmer in the solitude Men call me Birch Tree, yet I know In other days it was not so. I am a Dryad slim and white Who danced too long one summer night, And the Dawn found and prisoned me! Captive I moaned my liberty. But let the wood wind flutes begin Their elfin music, faint and thin, I sway, I bend, retreat, advance, And evermore--I dance! I dance!

ARTHUR KETCHUM

FAMILY TREES

You boast about your ancient line, But listen, stranger, unto mine:

You trace your lineage afar, Back to the heroes of a war Fought that a country might be free; Yea, farther--to a stormy sea Where winter's angry billows tossed, O'er which your Pilgrim Fathers crossed. Nay, more--through yellow, dusty tomes You trace your name to English homes Before the distant, unknown West Lay open to a world's behest; Yea, back to days of those Crusades When Turk and Christian crossed their blades, You point with pride to ancient names, To powdered sires and painted dames; You boast of this--your family tree; Now listen, stranger, unto me:

When armored knights and gallant squires, Your own belovèd, honored sires, Were in their infants' blankets rolled, My fathers' youngest sons were old; When they broke forth in infant tears My fathers' heads were crowned with years, Yea, ere the mighty Saxon host Of which you sing had touched the coast, Looked back as far as you look now. Yea, when the Druids trod the wood, My venerable fathers stood And gazed through misty centuries As far as even Memory sees. When Britain's eldest first beheld The light, my fathers then were eld. You of the splendid ancestry, Who boast about your family tree,

Consider, stranger, this of mine-- Bethink the lineage of a Pine.

DOUGLAS MALLOCH

IDEALISTS

Brother Tree: Why do you reach and reach? Do you dream some day to touch the sky? Brother Stream: Why do you run and run? Do you dream some day to fill the sea? Brother Bird: Why do you sing and sing? Do you dream-- _Young Man: Why do you talk and talk and talk?_

ALFRED KREYMBORG

"DRAW CLOSER, O YE TREES"

O quiet cottage room, Whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close, Are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloom And many a clambering rose,

Sweet is thy light subdued, Gracious and soft, lingering upon my book, As that which shimmers through the branchèd wood Above some dreamful nook!

Leaning within my chair, Through the curtain I can see the stir-- The gentle undulations of the air-- Sway the dark-layered fir;

And, in the beechen green, Mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud; While far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between, Floats the white summer cloud.

Through the loopholes in the leaves, Upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms, I see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheaves Gleam in the binders' arms.

At times I note, nearby, The flicker tapping on some hollow bole; And watch the sun, against the sky, The fluting oriole;

Or, when the day is done, And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush, Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,-- The darling wildwood thrush.