Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlor cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through. The dusty attic spider-clad He, through the key-hole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles, Into the laddered hay-loft smiles. Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook. Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The garden of the World, he goes. [Illustration] THE DUMB SOLDIER When the grass was closely mown Walking on the lawn alone, In the turf a hole I found And hid a soldier underground. Spring and daisies came apace; Grasses hide my hiding place; Grasses run like a green sea O'er the lawn up to my knee. Under the grass alone he lies, Looking up with leaden eyes. Scarlet coat and pointed gun, To the stars and to the sun. When the grass is ripe like grain, When the scythe is stoned again, When the lawn is shaven clear, Then my hole shall reappear. I shall find him, never fear, I shall find my grenadier; But for all that's gone and come, I shall find my soldier dumb. He has lived, a little thing, In the grassy woods of spring; Done, if he could tell me true, Just as I should like to do. He has seen the starry hours And the springing of the flowers: And the fairy things that pass In the forests of the grass. In the silence he has heard Talking bee and ladybird, And the butterfly has flown O'er him as he lay alone. Not a word will he disclose, Not a word of all he knows. I must lay him on the shelf, And make up the tale myself. [Illustration] THE GARDENER The gardener does not love to talk, He makes and keeps the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key. Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big. He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play. Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down. Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me! [Illustration] [Illustration] HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground, That now you smoke your pipe around, Has seen immortal actions done And valiant battles lost and won.