Here was her rosebush growing high, That he never knew—for he never cared; This was her joy no mortal shared. Her hands were never too stiff or tired To foster beauty the soul desired; The first shy green, the venturesome shoot, Flushing sap from the sturdy root, Moss-veiled bud and passionate bloom; Scarlet hips for the winter gloom. Never too worn the busy feet, Never too dull the old heart’s beat, For a furtive trip to the little shrine That made the moment a pause divine. Here by the bush one glimpsed the Hills, Where forests crooned and ran free rills; One breathed deep draughts from a windswept sky, Sunset, moonglow, mystery. This was her rosebush by the wall. Gone is the farmer, farm and all; Gone herd and crops and silver store. The children grown return no more To the hearth deserted, the loveless place, Haunted by one enduring grace; A dream of beauty, torn with briar, Clutched in vain as it reaches higher. SCARECROW Rags and tags of what he was, Topped with straw and stuffed with hay; Balanced tipsily askew, It grins to scare the crows away. I saw _Him_ first in that old hat— It seemed the crown of a king to me. I liked his careless swagger then; Lord! He was straight and fine to see. He courted me in that same coat— He couldn’t meet it now, I guess. That gay vest was the one he wore When I walked bride in my silver dress. He seemed as proud as I, those days. I never dreamed, when we were wed, I’d think the Scarecrow a better man, With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head. Rags and tags of what he seemed, Mocking me in the field all day. What can I make a scarecrow of, To drive the hungry thoughts away? INSPIRATION Life—Death in a drop of dew; And a prism to sift a sunbeam through. Fragile, perfect, briefly bright, A tremulous miracle of light; Beauty poised on a flower-tip; A whole round world for a Thrush to sip! A WASTED MORNING I wasted a morning! Where? And why? I let swift hours go silently by, As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree, And let God’s universe talk to me.