Part 8

O sanctuary shade Enfold one round! I would no longer roam: Let not the thought of wandering e'er invade This still, reclusive home!

Draw closer, O ye trees! Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue; The world may be more fair beyond all these, Yet I would know but you!

LLOYD MIFFLIN

TREES

In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, There were goodly trees in the springing sod,--

Trees of beauty and height and grace, To stand in splendor before His face.

Apple and hickory, ash and pear, Oak and beech and the tulip rare,

The trembling aspen, the noble pine, The sweeping elm by the river line;

Trees for the birds to build and sing, And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;

Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall;

Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade;

Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail;

He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.

Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise,

On the crown of a hill, for all to see, God planted a scarlet maple tree.

BLISS CARMAN

THE TREES

There's something in a noble tree-- What shall I say? a soul? For 'tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole. Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams.

I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kinship, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man.

Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after God; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things.

What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaëthon's fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream! In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, 'tis said, they wept For human sorrow too.

Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech. "Be serious," the solemn pine Is saying overhead; "Be beautiful," the elm-tree fine Has always finely said;

"Be quick to feel," the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, "Be strong." When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, "Be patient," say they all.

SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE

THE POPLARS

My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate.

My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pass If they approve of me.

I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign assurance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do.

Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pass between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien.

THEODOSIA GARRISON

TREES

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

JOYCE KILMER

THE LOST GARDENS OF THE HEART

AS IN A ROSE-JAR

_As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweet Blown long ago in some old garden place, Mayhap, where you and I, a little space Drank deep of love and knew that love was fleet-- Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreat By one who never will again retrace Her silent footsteps--one, whose gentle face Was fairer than the roses at her feet;_

_So, deep within the vase of memory I keep my dust of roses fresh and dear As in the days before I knew the smart Of time and death. Nor aught can take from me The haunting fragrance that still lingers here-- As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!_

THOMAS S. JONES, JR.

IN AN OLD GARDEN

Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago; Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems, I see them walking where those lilies blow. The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow; The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams, Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams, Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow. I seem to hear their whispers in each wind That wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand! Among the shadows of that apple tree! They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind, This garden, planted by some lovely hand That keeps it fragrant with its memory.

MADISON CAWEIN

THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

My heart is a garden of dreams Where you walk when day is done, Fair as the royal flowers, Calm as the lingering sun.

Never a drouth comes there, Nor any frost that mars, Only the wind of love Under the early stars,--

The living breath that moves Whispering to and fro, Like the voice of God in the dusk Of the garden long ago.

BLISS CARMAN

HOMESICK

O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream!

I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by.

I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow, And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil.

O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! O, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest! O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep!

Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars.

O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you, And I turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine, To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine--

With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew!

JULIA C. R. DORR

THE WAYS OF TIME

As butterflies are but winged flowers, Half sorry for their change, who fain, So still and long they live on leaves, Would be thought flowers again.--

E'en so my thoughts, that should expand, And grow to higher themes above, Return like butterflies to lie On the old things I love.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

A MIDSUMMER GARDEN

There is a little garden-close, Girdled by golden apple trees, That through the long sweet summer hours Is haunted by the hum of bees.

The poppy tosses here its torch, And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire, And regally the larkspur lifts The slender azure of its spire.

And from the phlox and mignonette Rich attars drift on every hand; And when star-vestured twilight comes The pale moths weave a saraband.

And crickets in the aisles of grass With their clear fifing pierce the hush; And somewhere you may hear anear The passion of the hermit-thrush.

It is a place where dreams convene, Dreams of the dead years gone astray, Of love and loveliness borne back From some forgotten yesterday.

It is a memory-hallowed spot Where joy assumes its vernal guise, And two walk silent side by side, Youth's glory shining in their eyes.

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE WHITE ROSE

This is the spirit flower, The ghost of an old regret; All night she stands in the garden-close, And her face with tears is wet. But I love the pale white rose, For she always seems to me A pallid nun who dreams all day Of a distant memory.

Alas! how well I know That every garden spot Is haunted by a gentle ghost Who will not be forgot. In the garden of the heart, Ere the sun of life is set, O many a wild rose blooms and dreams Of many an old regret!

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

A HAUNTED GARDEN

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop-- The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands....

Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred ... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride ... _Who entered in?_

LOUIS UNTERMEYER

THE DUSTY HOUR-GLASS

It had been a trim garden, With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers, and smooth-raked walks. Silks and satins had brushed the box edges of its alleys. The curved stone lips of its fishponds had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs. The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns, and swayed to the music of flutes and violins.

Now, the fishponds are green with scum; And paths and flower-beds are run together and overgrown. Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhouse not yet in ruins. Through the lozenged panes of its windows, you can see the interior: A dusty bench; a fireplace, with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it; A broken ball of worsted rolled away into a corner.

_Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!_

AMY LOWELL

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl, With apple-blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

W. B. YEATS

THE THREE CHERRY TREES

There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady.

Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet.

But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender.

Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady; Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady.

WALTER DE LA MARE

OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

ARTHUR UPSON

THE BLOOMING OF THE ROSE

What is it like, to be a rose?

_Old Roses, softly_, "Try and see."

Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile. I will stay here and dream awhile. 'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream--dream--who knows-- Say, is it good to be a rose? Old roses, tell me! Is it good?

_Old Roses, very softly_, "Good."

I am afraid to be a rose! This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn.

_Old Roses_, "Better to be born."

I cannot be a bud for long. My sheath is like a heart full blown, And I, the silence of a song Withdrawn into that heart alone, Well knowing that it shall be sung. Outside the great world comes and goes-- I think I doubt, to be a rose--

_Old Roses_, "Doubt? To be a Rose!"

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

THE GARDEN OF MNEMOSYNE

There are no roses in the garden now, The summer birds have vanished oversea, The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough, Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree.

Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled, Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know. Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead, When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow?

The summer birds have vanished oversea, But Memory's palace-courts are full of song; There sings a nightingale for you and me, And there a hidden lute plays all day long.

There are no roses in the garden now, But Memory's garden grows each day more fair; Sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow, And there bloom roses--roses everywhere.

ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE

Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled On the further shore of the sunset sea, In a land of wonder that none behold, There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree That stands in the Garden of Mystery Where the River of Slumber softly flows; And whenever a dream has come to be, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, A silvern bird sings endlessly A mystic song that is ages old, A mournful song in a minor key, Full of the glamour of faery; And whenever a dreamer's ears unclose To the sound of that distant melody, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

Dreams and visions in hosts untold Throng around on the moonlit lea: Dreams of age that are calm and cold, Dreams of youth that are fair and free-- Dark with a lone heart's agony, Bright with a hope that no one knows-- And whenever a dream and a dream agree, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

ENVOI

Princess, you gaze in a reverie Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; Slowly you raise your eyes to me ... A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

BRIAN HOOKER

THE FLOWERS OF JUNE

These flowers of June The gates of memory unbar; These flowers of June Such old-time harmonies retune, I fain would keep the gates ajar, So full of sweet enchantment are These flowers of June.

Was it the bloom of the laurel sprays, That wakened remembrance of singing birds? Or, was it the charm of remembered words, That set my heart singing through somber days? I longed for the summer-time, flower and tree; And lo! the summer-time came with thee. The bloom is no more, but the charm still stays.

JAMES TERRY WHITE

IN MEMORY'S GARDEN

There is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of butterflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.

There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies.

And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white.

THOMAS WALSH

SERENADE

Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the passion-flower.

Gone are our day's red roses. So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue.

Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,-- When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget?

MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL

"WHAT HEART BUT FEARS A FRAGRANCE?"

What heart but fears a fragrance? Alien they Who breathe in the white lilac only May; For there be other spirits unto whom Fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!

Who mock at ghosts of odour--poor they be! Bereft the scented balms of memory, For unto one in April's rain-blest earth There starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth; And Love will find in rooms unbarred for years Familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears, Clasping the will in mastering embrace As in the presence of a phantom grace.

Then there be odours pungent--fires in Fall The gipsying of boyhood to recall; And there be perfumes holy--nay, but one Whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun To drown the sinking senses in a joy Beyond all time to weaken or destroy! Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress-- Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless; Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee Doth wed the heart in Life's eternity.

Who fear no wraiths of fragrance--sorry they; Who breathe in lilac odours only May; For there be other mortals unto whom White magic wanders in each stray perfume.

MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI

YEARS AFTERWARD

It is not sight or sound That, when a heart forgets, Most makes it to remember: It's some old poignant scent re-found-- Like breath of April violets, Or apples of September.

It isn't song or scene That stirs the tears again: It's brush smoke from the hills at night, Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen, Long lost aroma of delight, Fresh ploughed fields after rain.

NANCY BYRD TURNER

AUTUMNAL

Across the scented garden of my dreams Where roses grew, Time passes like a thief, Among my trees his silver sickle gleams, The grass is stained with many a ruddy leaf; And on cold winds the petals float away That were the pride of June and her array.

The bare boughs weave a net upon the sky To catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise; There are no flowers in the rosary-- No song-birds in the mournful avenues; Though on the sodden air not lightly breaks The elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes.

Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare, One rose of all the roses, that in this I may possess my love's perfumed hair And all the crimson secrets of her kiss. Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine, And from her lips win the last anodyne.

For I have learnt too many things to live, And I have loved too many things to die; But all my barren acres I would give For one red blossom of eternity, To animate the darkness and delight The spaces and the silences of night.

But dreams are tender flowers that in their birth Are very near to death, and I shall reap, Who planted wonder, unavailing earth, Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep. I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time, And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme.

RICHARD MIDDLETON

"OH, TELL ME HOW MY GARDEN GROWS"

Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Now I no more may labor there; Do still the lily and the rose Bloom on without my fostering care?

Do peonies blush as deep with pride, The larkspurs burn as bright a blue, And velvet pansies stare as wide I wonder, as they used to do?

The tender things that would not blow Unless I coaxed them, do they raise Their petals in a sturdy row, Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze?

Or do they show a paler shade, And sigh a little in the wind For one whose sheltering presence made Their step-dame Nature less unkind?

Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Where I no more may take delight, And if some dream of me it knows, Who dream of it by day and night.

MILDRED HOWELLS

HER GARDEN

This was her dearest walk last year. Her hands Set all the tiny plants, and tenderly Pressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and she It was who watered them at evening time. She loved them; and I too, because of her. And now another June has come, while I Am walking in the shadow, sad, alone. Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers, And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom, She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves, The well-remembered rustle of her gown, And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!" This is her garden. Only she and I-- But always we--may walk its hallowed ways; And all the thoughts she planted in my heart, Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears, Again have blossomed--love's perennials.

ELDREDGE DENISON

THE LITTLE GHOST