Part 9

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked,-- The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked;

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone; I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on,

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands, that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do,--and, oh, She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled,--there was no hint Of sadness in her face;

She held her gown on either side, To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go;

And where the wall is built in new, And is of ivy bare, She paused,--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

ROSES IN THE SUBWAY

A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car, Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star.

Roses, I swear it! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses ... like captured hostages From far and fairy lands!

The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush.... The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament--

I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown-- And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother ... stooping down.

DANA BURNET

THE GARDEN OVER-SEAS

A GARDEN PRAYER

_That we are mortals and on earth must dwell Thou knowest, Allah, and didst give us bread-- And remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers-- Thy name be hallowed._

THOMAS WALSH

IN THE GARDEN-CLOSE AT MEZRA

In the garden-close at Mezra, When the cactus was in flower, We sat apart together Through the languid noonday hour.

I was her Arab lover, (Of course it was all in play!) And I called her "Star-of-Twilight," And I called her "Dream-of-Day."

She--has she quite forgotten? Soothly, I do not know If ever she tenderly opens The volume of Long Ago.

But I--I can still remember Her lips like the cactus flower In the garden-close at Mezra At the languid noonday hour!

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE CACTUS

The scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf, Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn: Thus from the rugged wounds of desperate grief A beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born.

LAURENCE HOPE

THE WHITE PEACOCK

Here where the sunlight Floodeth the garden, Where the pomegranate Reareth its glory Of gorgeous blossom; Where the oleanders Dream through the noontides; And, like surf o' the sea Round cliffs of basalt, The thick magnolias In billowy masses Front the sombre green of the ilexes: Here where the heat lies Pale blue in the hollows, Where blue are the shadows On the fronds of the cactus, Where pale blue the gleaming Of fir and cypress, With the cones upon them Amber or glowing with virgin gold: Here where the honey-flower Makes the heat fragrant, As though from the gardens Of Gulistan, Where the bulbul singeth Through a mist of roses A breath were borne: Here where the dream-flowers, The cream-white poppies Silently waver, And where the Scirocco, Faint in the hollows, Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight, And lieth sleeping Deep in the heart of A sea of white violets: Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain-valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers: White as the foam o' the sea that is driven O'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow: Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl, Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noontide A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment. Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing violets, The fragrant white violets veined with azure, Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands. Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, White as the cloud through the heats of the noontide Moves the White Peacock.

WILLIAM SHARP

AT ISOLA BELLA

Once at Isola Bella, With sunset in the sky, We stood on the topmost terrace-- You and I.

Around us Lago Maggiore, Incomparably fair, Gave back the hues of heaven To the Italian air.

Then up the marble terrace Below the cypress trees Came a flock of milk-white peacocks With fans spread to the breeze.

Rose-pink on each outspread feather, Rose-pink upon the crest,-- Never were birds in plumage So ravishingly drest!

Wherever we walked they followed, Stately at our feet, No picture so enchanting Will any hour repeat.

And here in the murky city Those milk-white peacocks seem To follow and follow me ever Like ghosts of a haunting dream.

JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE

THE FOUNTAIN

All through the deep blue night The fountain sang alone; It sang to the drowsy heart Of the satyr carved in stone.

The fountain sang and sang But the satyr never stirred-- Only the great white moon In the empty heaven heard.

The fountain sang and sang While on the marble rim The milk-white peacocks slept, And their dreams were strange and dim.

Bright dew was on the grass, And on the ilex, dew, The dreamy milk-white birds Were all a-glisten, too.

The fountain sang and sang The things one cannot tell; The dreaming peacocks stirred And the gleaming dew-drops fell.

SARA TEASDALE

THE CHAMPA FLOWER

Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?

You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.

When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _Ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.

But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?

When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"

"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

IN AN EGYPTIAN GARDEN

Can it be winter otherwhere? Forsooth, it seems not so! The moonlight on the garden square Must be the only snow, For all about me, fragrant fair, The blooms of summer blow.

Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland, The rose displays its dower; The heavy-scented citron and The stainless lily-tower; And whiter than a houri's hand, El Ful, the Arab flower.

In purple silhouette a palm Lifts from a vine-wreathed plinth Against a sky whose cloudless calm Is hued like hyacinth; And echoes with a bulbul's psalm The jasmine labyrinth.

In life's tumultuous ocean swell Here is a charmèd isle; I hear a late muezzin tell His holy tale the while, And like the faint notes of a bell The boat-songs of old Nile.

Across my spirit thrills no theme That is not marvel-bright; I see within the lotus gleam The nectar of delight, And, tasting it, I drift and dream Adown the glamoured night!

CLINTON SCOLLARD

EVENING IN OLD JAPAN

Peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-night As some great Buddha made of ivory, Upon whose brow is set a moonstone white, The shining emblem of its purity.

A dim blue haze like incense, rising high, Merges together mountain, tree, and stream; But over all still broods an ivory sky Cloudless as Buddha's face, one gem agleam.

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

REFLECTIONS

When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes.

A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface.

But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples. And as she drew out her hand, The water drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.

AMY LOWELL

IN THE GARDEN

Do you remember, Sister, The golden afternoon When we looked upon the lotus And listened to the croon Of the doves that sat together Among the flowers of June?

And deep among the valleys A far, sweet sound was heard-- Some fluter in the forest That like a magic bird Sang of the unseen heavens And mystic Way and Word.

PAI TA-SHUN

THE DESERTED GARDEN

I hear no more the swish of silks Along the marble walks; The autumn wind blows sharp and cold Among the flowerless stalks.

In place of petals of the peach Fast drifts the yellow leaf; And looking in the lotus-pond I see one face of grief.

PAI TA-SHUN

A ROMAN GARDEN

All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale. Below the Sabine mountain The tossed and slender fountain Will curve, a lily pale; And where the plumed pine soars tallest, 'Tis there, O nightingale, thou callest; Where the loud water leaps the highest. 'Tis there, O nightingale, thou criest; In the dripping luscious dark, Hark, oh, hark! Wonderful, delirious, Soul of joy mysterious.

A garden full of fragrances, Of pauses and of cadences, Whence come they all? Of cypresses and ilex-trees, Plumes and dark candles like to these Were long ago Persephone's.

All night within that garden The glimmering gods of stone, The satyrs and the naiads Will laugh to be alone, In starless courts of shadows By silence overgrown, Save for the nightingale's Wild lyric thither blown.

By pools and dusky closes Dim shapes will move about, Twirled wands and masks and faces, Dancers and wreaths of roses, The moonlight's trick, no doubt. A naked nymph upon the stair, A sculptured vine that clasps the air,-- And then one Bacchic bird somewhere Will pour his passion out. All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.

Down yonder velvet alley, Floats Daphne like a feather, A finger bidding silence, The dark and she together. Look, where the secret fount is misting. Apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting: For where a ruined sphinx lay smiling The wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling. All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.

FLORENCE WILKINSON EVANS

COMO IN APRIL

The wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring: The icy rills have scarce begun to flow; The birds unconfidently fly and sing.

As on the land once fell the northern foe, The hostile mountains from the passes fling Their vandal blasts upon the lake below.

Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime cling Above the world's blue wonder's curving show, And tempt to linger with their lingering.

Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know: See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing. A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow.

* * * * *

Love, need we more than our imagining To make the whole year May? What though The wind be Winter if the heart be Spring?

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON

AN EXILE'S GARDEN

I live in the heart of a garden With cypresses all about; To the east and west, and the south and north, Straight shadowy paths run out.

There are ancient gods in my garden; They have faces young and pale; And a hundred thousand roses here Enrapture the nightingale.

Yet, among the gods of the garden, The roses and gods, I think, Daylong, of a far-off clover field, And the song of a bob-o-link.

SOPHIE JEWETT

THE CLOISTER GARDEN AT CERTOSA

It is a place monastic, set above The city's pride and pleasuring below; The benediction of the sky breathes love Over the olive trees and vines a-row.

The old gray walls are delicate to prayer And silence; in the corridors dim-lit Lurks many a painting, many a fresco rare Done by some brother for the joy of it.

Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these, The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats.

By a sun-dial in the center, rests One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite Some holy word; little he heeds the jests Of those who make the world their chief delight.

While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours.

RICHARD BURTON

A GARDEN IN VENICE

There is a garden in a vineyard set Beneath the spell of Adriatic skies; A lovely place of dreams and ecstasies, Of color tangled in a verdant net, The shimmer of the low lagoon whose fret Washes the garden's length, and rose that vies With rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that rise Above their fellows in one glory met. And there I think in the still summer night, When all the world is sleeping save the moon And the blest nightingale who shuns the noon, The closed flowers open out of sheer delight And the white lilies bow their slender stalks, For thro' them, 'neath the vines Madonna walks.

DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY

IN A GARDEN OF GRANADA

The city rumour rises all the day Across the potted plants along the wall; The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway, Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall.

The sun is old and weary--weary here Upon the ageing roofs and miradors, The broken terraces and basins drear Where each old bell its ancient echoes pours.

Ringing--what memories to ring--to those That linger here--the lizard and the cat, That haunt these solitudes in state morose Through the long day their silent habitat.

Untroubled,--save when in the moonlight steals Some voice in song across the lower wall, And sudden magic each old rafter feels, The while the echoes round it rise and fall.

For as the wail of love or sorrow rings Along the night soft steps are on the stair And pathway; in the broken window wings Are stirring, and white arms are lolling there.

And that old rose tree lifts its head anew, And there is perfume o'er the hills afar, From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blue To where agleam Genil and Darro are.

O Voice!--what is thy necromantic word That all Granada waits adown the years? Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?-- The cry of love amid the cry of tears?--

THOMAS WALSH

AMIEL'S GARDEN

His Garden! His bright candelabra trees En fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His sky Limpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lie Athwart this path he paced. His reveries Float in the air. His moods, his ecstasies Still linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by-- Were one his soul it had not found on high Banquet more choice than those infinities He daily knew. And now no one to hear The hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel The wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see God's shadow bend down from eternity-- His garden empty! Yet I gently steal Lest I disturb his dreams still smiling near.

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

EDEN-HUNGER

O that a nest, my mate! were once more ours, Where we, by vain and barren change untutored, Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers, And live the great, green life of field and orchard!

From the cold birthday of the daffodils, E'en to that listening pause that is November, O to confide in woods, confer with hills, And then--then, to that palmland you remember,

Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's rule Are one vast violet breaking into lilies; There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule, In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles.

WILLIAM WATSON

THE GARDEN AT BEMERTON

FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERBERT'S POEMS

Year after year, from dusk to dusk, How sweet this English garden grows, Steeped in two centuries' sun and musk, Walled from the world in gray repose, Harbor of honey-freighted bees, And wealthy with the rose.

Here pinks with spices in their throats Nod by the bitter marigold; Here nightingales with haunting notes, When west and east with stars are bold, From out the twisted hawthorn-trees, Sing back the weathers old.

All tuneful winds do down it pass; The leaves a sudden whiteness show, And delicate noises fill the grass; The only flakes its spaces know Are petals blown off briers long, And heaped on blades below.

Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year, 'Tis more than these that keeps it rare! We see the saintly Master here, Pacing along the alleys fair, And catch the throbbing of a song Across the amber air!

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

IN AN OXFORD GARDEN

As one whose road winds upward turns his face Unto the valleys where he late hath stood, Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood On many a beauty of the distant place, So I in this cool garden pause a space, Reviewing many things in many a mood, Accumulating friends in solitude From the assembly of my thoughts and days.

ARTHUR UPSON

THE HOMELY GARDEN

"GRANDMOTHER'S GATHERING BONESET"

_Grandmother's gathering boneset to-day; In the garret she'll dry and hang it away. Next winter I'll "need" some boneset tea-- I wish she wouldn't think always of me!_

EDITH M. THOMAS

A BREATH OF MINT

What small leaf-fingers veined with emerald light Lay on my heart that touch of elfin might?

What spirals of sharp perfume do they fling, To blur my page with swift remembering?

Borne in a country basket marketward, Their message is a music spirit-heard,

A pebble-hindered lilt and gurgle and run Of tawny singing water in the sun.

Their coolness brings that ecstasy I knew Down by the mint-fringed brook that wandered through

My mellow meadows set with linden-trees Loud with the summer jargon of the bees.

Their magic has its way with me until I see the storm's dark wing shadow the hill

As once I saw: and draw sharp breath again, To feel their arrowy fragrance pierce the rain.

O sudden urging sweetness in the air, Exhaled, diffused about me everywhere,

Yours is the subtlest word the summer saith, And vanished summers sigh upon your breath.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

A SELLER OF HERBS

Black, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares.

Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes, Grown by a kitchen wall.

Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs In a field's hollow set.

My snatch of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me.

The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the grass, High over the town roar I hear, When that old stall I pass.

What homely memories are mine, At sight of her quaint stalks; Of grave dusks mellowing like wine Down long, box-bordered walks;

Of garret windows eastward thrust, Of rafters shining dim, And heaped with herbs as gray as dust All scented to the brim.

This lady of the market-place, Three times a week and more, I pray her seasons thick with grace; And ever at her door,

Shut from the road by wall of stone, And ample cherry trees, A garden fair as Herrick's own, And just as full of bees!

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

LAVENDER

Gray walls that lichen stains, That take the sun and the rains, Old, stately, and wise: Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered, In ancient ways yet ordered; South walks where the loud bee plies Daylong till Summer flies-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Gay cottage gardens, glad, Comely, unkempt, and mad, Jumbled, jolly, and quaint; Nooks where some old man dozes; Currants and beans and roses Mingling without restraint; A wicket that long lacks paint-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Sprawling for elbow-room, Spearing straight spikes of bloom, Clean, wayward, and tough; Sweet and tall and slender, True, enduring, and tender, Buoyant and bold and bluff, Simplest, sanest of stuff-- Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.

W. W. BLAIR FISH

DAWN IN MY GARDEN

I went into my garden at break of Delight, Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky, To see how many cucumbers had happened over night, And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high.

I went into my garden when Rest had fallen away From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green, To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day, And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean.

I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing low Through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines, Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row, Where early in the every day the dew shakes and shines.

Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold, From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night, But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold, When I went into my garden at break of Delight!

MARGUERITE WILKINSON

THE PROUD VEGETABLES

In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat, There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat; But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round, And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.

Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one. He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun. "We both are round and yellow, we both are bright," said he, "A stronger family likeness one could scarcely wish to see."

Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crooked neck, Perhaps 'twas hanging made it so,--her nerves were quite a wreck. Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean, The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.