If I am slow forgetting-- Ah, well, come back and see The same old sunbeams petting My garden-plots and me. Come smell the green things growing, The boxwood after rain; See where old beds are showing Their slender spears again. At dusk, that fosters dreaming-- Come back at dusk and rest, And watch our old star gleaming Against the primrose west. _Harper’s_ _Margaret Lee Ashley_ MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, And, spinning all day at her secret looms, With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall She pictureth over, and peopleth it all With echoes and dreams, And singing of streams. May is building her house. Of petal and blade, Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made, With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, traveling green things strayed. Her windows, the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing, The thresholds of the four winds are. May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October’s tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea! out of winter’s flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November’s feet She is changing back again to spring’s. _Harper’s_ _Richard Le Gallienne_ IN A FORGOTTEN BURYING-GROUND Eternal in the brooding of the old Norwegian spruces I hear the wistful tenderness of loves They used to know, And in the swelling wood-notes that the eager springtide looses Sobs again Their heart-break from the Springs of Long Ago: And sometime, thro’ the silence, with the April shadows lying Aslant the solemn acre where I take my dreamless rest, Perhaps the stifled need of You my heart was ever crying Will find its way across the years--to stir a stranger’s breast! _The Poetry Journal_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_ WIND The Wind bows down the poplar trees, The Wind bows down the crested seas; And he has bowed the heart of me Under his hand of memory. O heavy-handed Wind, who goes Hurting the petals of the rose; Who leaves the grasses on the hill Broken and pallid, spent and still! O heavy-handed Wind, who brings To me all echoing ancient things: Echoing sorrow and defeat, Crying like mourners, hard to meet! The Wind bows down the poplar trees And all the ocean’s argosies; But deeper bends the heart of me, Under his hand of memory. _Harper’s_ _Fannie Stearns Davis_ THE SPECKLED TROUT With rod and line I took my way That led me through the gossip trees, Where all the forest was asway With hurry of the running breeze.