There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. MARTHA HASKELL CLARK CRETONNE TROPICS The cretonne in your willow chair Shows through a zone of rosy air, A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, With blue-green crests and plumes of pride And beaks most formidably curved. I hear the river, silver-nerved, To their shrill protests make reply, And the palm forest stir and sigh. Curious, the spell that colors cast, Binding the fancy coweb-fast, And you would smile if you could know I like your cretonne parrots so! But I have seen them sail toward night Superbly homeward, the last light Lifting them like a purple sea Scorned and made use of arrogantly; And I have heard them cry aloud From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud; And I brought home a brilliant feather, Lost like a flake of sunset weather. Here in the north the sea is white And mother-of-pearl in morning light, Quite lovely, but there is a glare That daunts me. Now the willow chair Suggests a more perplexing sea, Till my heart aches with memory And parrots dye the air around, And I forget the pallid Sound. GRACE HAZARD TO HILDA OF HER ROSES Enough has been said about roses To fill thirty thick volumes; There are as many songs about roses As there are roses in the world That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon… It is a pity your roses Are too late for Omar… It is a pity Keats has gone… Yet there must be something left to say Of flowers like these! Adventurers, They pushed their way Through dewy tunnels of the June night Now they confer…. A little tremulous…. Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning If Herrick would tiptoe back… If Blake were to look this way Ledwidge, even! GRACE HAZARD CONKLING DANDELION O Little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight! HILDA CONKLING RED ROOSTER Red rooster in your gray coop, O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, Yellow and black, You have a comb gay as a parade On your head: You have pearl trinkets On your feet: The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don’t know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud… sharp… not beautiful! HILDA CONKLING VELVETS (BY A BED OF PANSIES)